Malenkaya
by Himitsu-no-Paradise
Summary: Ivan Petrovitch gave her the name "Romanova" for a reason.
1. Prologue

An idea that came to me. It's a little mix of actual history, a little mix of Don Bluth movie magic, and a whole lot of Avengers. Taking great liberties with all by the way, but with a strange and wonderful outcome, I hope. Enjoy.

Summary: Ivan Petrovitch gave her the name "Romanova" for a reason.

Disclaimer: I own nothing

* * *

Prologue

* * *

_Russia, 1917_

_Comrades,_

_The deed has been done. We've won. My brothers in arms, _

_our oppressive regime, with its wealth and expensive _

_taste—with its grand parties and opulence—has fallen. _

_We've won, my friends, and now, the Russia we've always wanted_

_and deserved is just within our grasp. A free Russia. An _equal_ Russia._

_No one will ever stifle us again. We are the strength of this great_

_country. We are it's backbone. And now, we will all receive what_

_we deserve. Comrades..._

_Welcome Home._

_Your friend and equal,  
__**Vladimir Lenin**_

Ivan Petrovitch smirked as he read the letter, printed on the front page of the _St. Petersburg Gazette._ He was a young man, no older than twenty, but intelligent. He also had a certain _belief_ in the weight of power. Of which, Lenin now had much. And, with his newly (and secretly) Bolshevik funded black ops program, so would he.

Moving through the the freshly constructed hallways of Department X, he paused, pushing a heavy metal door open and stepping inside. His smirk stretched in a (near) sadistic grin as he looked upon his girls. _So_ many girls.

Each with a special talent. Each _alone. _He was doing them a favor.

And as he looked on his newest girl, an ironic expression of delight twisted his features. She was young—perhaps seven or eight—and frightened. And as she watched the girls—_his_ girls—as they bent and broke their bodies for his cause, he knew he could _use_ the wide-eyed childishness in her to his advantage. To _Lenin's_ advantage. And oh, how _poetic_ it would be. How very...fitting.

He approached her, eyes locked on her tiny form, as her head tilted back, to glance up at his tall, shadowing figure. Slowly, he reached out, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, and offered Lenin's words:

"Welcome home," his voice, soft as cream, murmured, "Miss Romanova."


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not the characters, the histories or any of it. Just taking a little poetic license for fun.

Chapter One

* * *

_Russia, 1914_

* * *

"Nastya, you _shvibzik_! You're such a naughty girl!"

At the age of four, Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova was the worst of her siblings. She wasn't sure how many times her governess called her a _naughty girl_ in a day, but it was more times than she ever said it to Olga, Tatiana or Maria.

Though she was a pretty, charming little girl, with the biggest cerulean eyes, and a head full of bright red ringlets, Anastasia wasn't like her sisters—they enjoyed to do needlework and have tea parties, but Anastasia liked to play like the little boys did. But, at the age of four, what child could keep her attention on such dull things as sewing?

No, Anastasia enjoyed pulling pranks on her sisters. She hid their dolls, placed their sewing needles upright in their rocking chairs, and put water from the pond near their house into their teapots—goldfish and all. When her sisters tore through their perfectly cleaned rooms, yelped in pain for their wounded posteriors and spat dirty water and flopping goldfish onto the tapestries, Anastasia would merely giggle.

But her sisters could never take a joke. They always told on her.

Today, Miss Margaretta, her governess, was displeased with her because she, and her sister's, were in their Sunday's best. But Anastasia hated dresses—she especially hated that her sisters always looked better and more proper in their dresses than she did. So, to even the odds, she made sure to leave them each a present at the dinner table.

Who knew that jelly smeared on a dining room chair would stain so permanently on Tatiana's champagne colored frock?

"Wait until your mother and father hear of this!" Miss Margaretta shrieked, shaking her head as she dragged Anastasia by the arm to the room she shared with her sister, Maria. Shoving her inside, she waggled her finger at her, sternly. "Now, you will stay in here and contemplate what you've done, young lady. You're a naughty, _naughty_ girl!"

Anastasia rolled her eyes a little, but flinched at the snap of Miss Margaretta slamming the door shut. She pursed her little lips into a pout and crossed her arms. Most girls her age would be pleased to be confined to her room—a room full of dolls and nice dresses and costume jewelry—but these things were unamusing to Anastasia. She would have rather been playing with one of the servants sons, getting dirty or playing pirates.

Sitting down on her small cot, she sighed, kicking her tiny feet as they dangled over the side of the bed. The room grew dark with the setting sun, colors of orange and pink painting the plain white walls around her. She picked up her needlework and wrinkled her nose at it. She'd stitched one or two lines, compared to her sisters one or two finished products. Placing it down, she laid back on her bed and sighed.

"You look quite bored."

Anastasia sat up, immediately, and her eyes widened when she noticed the child lingering in the room with her. He was dressed in a pair of black trousers, a plain brown vest and a white shirt. His hair was black and slicked back, and his skin was fair. His green eyes followed her as she stood and moved from her bed to the door, ready to alert someone. He spoke Russian but with an accent Anastasia had never heard before.

As she raised her hand to knock on the door and yell, the boy shook his head. "I wouldn't do that. I mean you no harm."

He looked to be ten or eleven, but she was slow to stop her alert. Despite his apparent age, his presence frightened her.

"Wait," he said again. "If you'll let me, I can show you a magic trick. Would you like that?"

Anastasia paused, tilting her head curiously at him. Then, she nodded, quietly. Never had she ever had nothing to say, but the boy was curious—frightening, but curious—and she felt the strange urge to listen rather than speak.

Moving to one of the rocking chairs, she placed herself down and crossed her ankles. Rocking herself a little, her feet swung, not reaching the floor.

The boy smiled a strange smile and then a glimmer of greenish magic jumped from his fingers. Waving them, carefully, and twisting the magic around his fingers, he finally laid his hand flat, palm up and allowed the magic to culminate on it. With a small pop, the magic dissipated, leaving a cluster of Swiss chocolate which settled there, invitingly.

Anastasia's eyes widened in awe and she clapped her little hands together. "_U__divitel'nyy_!" she cried, "Amazing!"

The boy's smile widened and he approached her, bending a little to offer her the chocolate. "Come now. It's for you."

Anastasia looked up at him, and then, with uncertain fingers, she plucked the chocolate from his hand—which was unnaturally cool to the touch—and placed the sweet in her mouth. Her eyes widened at how smooth and decadent it was—though any child of four would never have been able to describe it in such a way. All she knew was it was the best chocolate she'd ever tasted.

When she finished the chocolate, she stood up and tilted her head at him again. The boy moved from one end of her room to the other, his eyes scanning all of the drawings and family pictures that sat on the dressers and bedside tables.

"Your family seems close," he said, off-handedly.

"Excuse me," the girl finally said, gaining a little of her usual independence and courage back since being punished, "but who are you, sir? I've never seen you before. And where did you come from?"

The boy let his head swivel on its neck, making his profile visible to her questioning green eyes. He smiled and then turned his entire body to face her again. "My apologies, malenkaya," he murmured, and Anastasia blushed at the new and personal nickname. She was unsure why. In any case, the boy bowed, regally, to her, all the same. "My name is Lukas. I am apprentice to the groundskeeper. Where he prunes and keeps the gardens pristine, I do much of the grunt work—raking, sweeping the walks, and the like. My position is very..._new_."

"Oh," Anastasia mumbled, as the boy—Lukas—walked backward, toward one of the walls, toward a spot unobstructed by furniture. The little girl continued: "But you still haven't told me where you came from."

As if anticipating that question, the boy diverted her attention by pressing against the piece of empty wall. It swung open and Anastasia's eyes widened in shock. He smirked. "It's a passage. You never knew? It travels all the way down to the back gardens."

"Where the labyrinth is?"

"Yes."

"Mama and Miss Margaretta never let me play back there," Anastasia replied with a pout.

"Well, _malenkaya_," Lukas murmured, holding out his unusually long, cool fingers out to her. "Would you like to go?"

The girl frowned, suddenly, her eyes scanning the room. It was fully dark now, and she knew that the labyrinth was more dangerous at night. She could get lost more easily, and she knew, as the house began to settle down to bed, that to cry out, she may not be heard. She may not be saved. It frightened her a little.

"Worry not," the boy said, suddenly, as if reading her mind—or perhaps her expression, "For if you get lost, I will always find you."

Anastasia looked at the door behind her, wondering if Miss Margaretta would return soon. But there was at least another hour or two of the governess and her sisters sitting in the drawing room, reading from books Anastasia didn't understand—drawing pictures that Anastasia did not care about. Licking her lips, nervously, she leaped forward, taking the cold fingers with her own small, warm ones.

Pulling her through the door and into the tunnel, Lukas led her down through the twisting cavern winding its way, secretly, through the palace and out into the back.

He pushed the other end of the door open and pulled her out into the towering lush, green walls of the labyrinth, grinning at her. "Come, now, _malenkaya_! Keep up!"

He began to run, laughing out loud, as he rushed around the corner. Anastasia's eyes widened with fear at losing sight of him, but something welled up deep within her—a sense of great _mischief_. She _wanted_ to have fun. So, with a smile, she followed him.

"Lukas! Lukas!" she cried as she twisted and turned each of the corners. She could hear his laughter, and as she turned one corner, she saw the tails of his shirt turning another. She laughed along with him. "I'm going to catch you, Lukas!"

They chased each other like this for hours, and as the night wore on, the stars twinkled above them, and the moon shone down, moving higher and higher into the sky. Each time one tagged the other, the game began again, but with the other as the offending force.

Until, a shifting cloud moved over the moon, causing the labyrinth to go dark during Anastasia's third or fourth turn. She paused in the middle, and frowned, her eyes barely adjusting to the new found darkness. Suddenly, the sense of whimsical mischief died within her and fear filled her childlike form again.

She could no longer hear Lukas' laughter either. Shivering from the cold night air and fear that gripped her, she twisted and turned, pivoting in her spot over and over again. "Lukas!" she cried, her eyes filled with tears. "Lukas! Lukas!"

Crouching suddenly, she pressed her knees together and pushed her face into them, soaking her dress with tears as she began to cry. "Lukas! Lukas..._gde ty_?"

There was a deep chill that brushed over her back all of a sudden, and suddenly, cool, gentle hands slid into her small, warm ones and pulled her up. With a face streaked with tears, Anastasia looked up at the boy, who's eyes swam with guilt—and gentle understanding.

"Oh, _malenkaya_," he whispered. "Did I not tell you I would always find you?"

Anastasia sniffled, but nodded.

She never doubted him again.

* * *

_Asgard_.

* * *

Thor Odinson was a warrior of the highest calibur. Despite this fact, though, he was reckless, headstrong and full of the need for war—a _need_, if he were to examine himself more deeply, which grew from the desire to prove himself to his father. However, since defeating the Frost Giants before Thor's birth, there had been no _need_ for war.

Asgard was safe.

Still, even the house of Odin had its secrets. And Thor, with a dying urge to prove himself a worthy heir, was willing to unravel each and every one of them—unafraid, in his unfailing youth, of who he might alienate in the process. So, as he moved through the palace, to his younger brother's room, he swallowed down any uncertainty he had for what he was about to do and knocked.

From within, the youngest of Odin's children looked up from his spellbook, closing the tome, carefully, and standing from behind his grand, wooden desk. Pulling his dressing gown onto his tall, tapered form, he pulled the door open, a slim, black brow sliding up at the sight of Thor standing in his doorway.

"Loki," said Thor, his deep voice firm. "We must speak, Brother."

Loki cut his eyes away in irritation but waved the older Odinson inside. Thor closed the door behind him.

"What may I entreat you with, Brother?" Loki asked, placing his spellbook back on the bookshelf at the other end of his grand room.

"Pray, my brother," Thor began, "where were you on this night?"

Loki's expression darkened, suddenly, as he finished his task, pulling his long, slim fingers from the book's spine before he turned, slowly, and took calculating steps back toward Thor. "An odd question, Thor. Why ask you?"

As children, they shared everything with one another. They were inseparable and always at play. Thor used to adore Loki's magic and mischief making—especially when it caused a fight in which he had to defend the younger. Thor's will to fight had always been strong—and Loki's will for mischief had always been great.

But now, as young adults, as the centuries wore on, they began to drift apart. Still, Thor would choose Loki and his friends over any other in Asgard should they fall into dire straits. He knew this for certain. But sometimes, Loki's behavior bewildered him. Frightened him, even.

Tonight was one of those nights.

"Heimdall said he lost sight of you earlier this evening. He said you were shrouded by something that his Sight could not penetrate," Thor murmured.

"As you could clearly see," Loki replied, gesturing to his bookshelf. "I was studying my spellbook. I found a spell I wished to practice and was merely attempting it. It seems to have worked. Does that suffice as an answer for you?"

Thor frowned. "Brother-"

"Now if you'll excuse me, I wish to retire. Goodnight, Brother."

"But, Brother-"

"Good_night_."

Thor pressed his lips together with uncertainty, before nodding and turning to leave. He knew not what his brother was scheming, but he would leave him be. If there was some mischief around the corner for him, he was sure it would be harmless enough. Loki's magic was only, ever harmless.

* * *

_Russia, 1914_

* * *

"The tricks you play on your sisters are quite brilliant," Lukas said one day, as they sat under the shadow of one of the labyrinth's walls, looking up at the stars.

Anastasia was sucking on a popsicle that Lukas had manifested from no where, her tiny form wrapped in a long white nightgown and a warm, black robe. Her hair was braided and tied off with a bow—something Margaretta did to keep her curls from tangling during the night—and as the boy spoke, she turned her eyes on him, smiling.

"Do you think so? My sisters do not seem to. Neither does Miss Margaretta. She calls me a _naughty_ girl and a _shvibzik_! She locks me in my room often and I hate my room," she murmured. "It's so full of dolls and dresses and pretty, girly things. I hate girly things."

"Why is that, _malenkaya_?" Lukas asked.

"Because!" the little girl said, haughtily. Then, her expression drooped, sadly.

"Because of what?" Lukas asked, gently as Anastasia sucked on the popsicle, a sudden sheepishness falling over her.

"Because Papa didn't want me," murmured the child, pulling her knees to her chest with her free hand. "Olga told me. Olga said when I was born, Papa did not even visit me. She said he looked very sad and upset and went for a long walk before he ever even looked at me. She said she heard the midwife tell one of the servants that he wished for a boy."

Lukas frowned, a sudden sense of empathy falling over him, as he pressed his cool hand to her shoulder.

Anastasia's bottom lip jutted out and trembled, her eyes filling with tears. "Ever since, I have tried acting like the boys around the palace—to show Papa that I am exactly what he wants. But it means my sisters hate me and Miss Margaretta hates me and Mama is sometimes very cross with me when she sees me."

"I am sorry, _malenkaya_," Lukas murmured. "But I understand being outcasted in your family. I am—was—much the same in mine."

"And then," cried Anastasia, as if remembering just then, "Alexei was born and suddenly, Papa did not have time to realize I was everything he wanted! He did not _need_ Alexei, so I do not know _why_ he kept him!"

Lukas laughed at that, shaking his head. "One cannot simply give a baby back."

"Why not?" she asked, looking at him.

He simply smiled though and shook his head, before standing. Offering his hand, he pulled her up into a standing position and grinned. "How about I show you some new tricks you can play on your sisters, hm? I'm good at tricks. My master calls me quite the trickster."

"You play tricks on the groundskeeper? Can't you get in trouble?"

"No," Lukas replied. "He thinks they're amusing. In fact, why don't I help you with your tricks sometimes, hm? When you and your sisters are out on the front lawn. Since I am not allowed in the palace."

"Is that why you always sneak in?"

"Well," Lukas murmured. "I must come and see my _malenkaya_, mustn't I? I learned all of the secret passages from eavesdropping on the guards. They thought because of my age and status I could not understand them."

Anastasia smiled. "Well, I am glad you come to see me, Lukas. You're my very best friend!"

With that, she dropped her empty popsicle stick to the ground and rushed down the long path shadowed beneath the labyrinth walls.

Lukas paused, his eyes watching her, wide with shock. He had never been anyone's best friend before. No one had ever _wanted_ to spend time with him, outside of his own family. Yet, this child—this _girl—_wanted his attention. _His_ attention.

"Lukas, come!" she cried, giggling as she jumped up and down, waving her arms. "Come! Chase me!"

Her words shook him from his thoughts and he smiled. As she bounced, the hem of her nightgown wavering back and forth around her ankles, he realized he wanted her attention too. He liked to play with her. He liked her company. She was...refreshing.

Making chase of her, he laughed, and cried, "You asked for it, _malenkaya_!" in return.

They chased each other into the wee hours of the morning.

* * *

"Wake up!"

Miss Margaretta's ruler came slamming down on the desk which Anastasia rested her head upon the next morning, and the child's head shot up, her eyes scanning the drawing room where each of her and her sisters' desks were set up for their daily lessons.

When she was fully awake again, Miss Margaretta continued with her lesson, and it took everything within Anastasia not to fall asleep again. She had to resort to daydreaming of her night with Lukas—of the magic he did and the hours of play which they engaged in.

"Nastenka," murmured Tatiana from next to her when they all sat down for lunch later that day. "It isn't like you to sleep during lessons. Of all of the silly things you love to do, reading and books are a few of things that aren't silly!"

Anastasia shrugged, and stirred at her pea soup with her spoon, her appetite very little due to her lack of sleep. It had always depended on the book, to be honest. The silly books Miss Margaretta read to her sisters did not ever catch her interest. But sometimes, in the history books, were stories or pirates, warriors and soldiers, and those stories always caught her attention.

However, her mind was a million miles from those stories. It was focused, first and foremost, on how tired she felt—and how much she missed her friend. She tried to eat lunch, despite these things and took a few small sips from her spoon but, after a little while, she asked to be excused and then left.

She walked to her room, stopping in front of the door. At her age, she was only allowed to wander the halls of the palace, alone. She was barred from traveling outside without her sisters, a servant or Miss Margaretta. But, as she wished in her heart of hearts, for her friend to be present when she entered, she knew if he were standing just inside, he would take her along on one of his adventures in the labyrinth and they would play many games and he would do magic for her.

Closing her eyes and wishing strongly, she pushed the door open—and her heart sank to find the room empty and filled with the sprinkle of sunlight which trickled in from outside. With a sigh, Anastasia dropped herself on her bed and turned over. She didn't care if she wrinkled her dress. She just wanted to sleep.

With a sad, lonely sound, and a yawn, she let her eyes fall closed, and sleep claimed her.

* * *

_Asgard_

* * *

Loki massaged his eye-sockets, firmly, trying to stay awake as Thor showered him, and his friends, The Warriors Three, with the story of his newest triumph. Or rather, a story of Odin's newest triumph that Thor _happened_ to be a part of.

"Father brought Malekith to his knees! And I was there to fight off his forces with Mjolnir at my side!" declared Thor, taking a long swig of ale as he they sat in one of the palace's many relaxation rooms. "However, Father spared the Dark Elf's life in exchange for a shuddering peace. I doubt it will stand."

Loki rolled his eyes as he sank deeper into the fur and pillows of the chaise lounge he was spread out on.

"Perhaps he wishes to give him a false sense of security, my friend!" the gluttonous Volstagg bellowed, his great red beard hugging the curves of his mouth as he lifted a pastry to his lips. "That he may smite him when he least expects!"

Fandral gave a sound of agreement, leaning over the arm of the sofa he rested on to flirt with the Lady Sif, the only lady of Asgard to prove herself a worthy warrior. Sif rolled her eyes with a smirk.

Hogun said nothing.

"Or," Loki offered, a expression of dull disinterest on his face. "Perhaps, Father understands the merit of diplomacy."

Five pairs of eyeballs turned to him, and Thor furrowed his brow. "How mean you, Brother?"

Loki's eyes widened. _Is he asking that question in all seriousness? _Taking a deep breath, he stood. "Nevermind, Brother." He offered a small smile to him. "I am pleased to find you and Father in good health upon your return. Now, if you'll all excuse me, I will be retiring to my room."

He gave a curt bow as he stood and turned, leaving in a flurry of green robes and black leather.

Sif watched him, curiously, as he went.

* * *

_Russia, 1914._

* * *

Anastasia woke at around one in the morning and Maria was already asleep in the next bed over. Her eyes wandered the room, silently, and she sat up. She was thirsty, and lonely, and this caused a tense sadness to well in her stomach.

It was broken, however, by a voice from the corner.

"_Malenkaya_," the voice murmured, and hiding deep in the shadows of the dark room was Lukas, smiling. She could see the light fluttering through the crack in the wall where the tunnel door was. He was holding it open slightly, waiting for her.

As a wide smile spread across her face, she stood up and rushed to him, taking his hand with the grace of a duchess, but the whimsical spirit of a tomboy at play.

As he pulled her down the tunnel toward the labyrinth, she felt happy and at peace. Wanted. Loved.

She wanted it to be like this always.

* * *

_Shvibzik = _Imp

_U__divitel'nyy_ = Astonishing, amazing

_gde ty = _Where are you?

_Malenkaya_ = Little one

* * *

"For whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake and the gospel's will save it." Mark 8:35

_Please_ review.


	3. Chapter 2

You just know when it hits you—a new idea—and you can't ignore it? If you read _Endurance_, I'm sorry that I'm putting it on hold for this right now. It won't leave me alone!

So, without further ado...

Disclaimer: I don't own...basically anything. Yeah...no...nothing.

* * *

Chapter 2

* * *

_Russia, 1915_

* * *

"Happy birthday, Nastenka!" cried Olga over a large, three tier birthday cake, decorated with green frosting, and topped with five beautiful, gold colored candles. Miss Margaretta lit each candle, carefully, and Tsar Nicholas sat at the head of the table, smiling distantly at his youngest daughter.

Anastasia glanced up at hm, and she could tell he wished to be elsewhere. She was sure her mother, Alexandra, who sat just opposite Alexei's high-chair at her father's right hand, had convinced him to pull his nose out of his important documents and decrees long enough to celebrate.

But, the one she really wished to spend her birthday with was no where near. She missed the sweet sound of a boy's voice calling out for _malenkaya_ and she wondered where Lukas could be. He had not been to visit her in days, and whenever she wandered into the gardens with Tatiana (who just loved to look at the roses), she never saw him lingering near the groundskeeper. There were even days she wished to ask the whistling gardener where she might find him, but Tatiana always pulled her away before she could, or Margaretta would call them inside for lunch or supper.

Now, as they all sat around the ornately carved and varnished cherry-wood table, cutting and passing out slices of cake, Anastasia wondered if, perhaps, she'd ever see Lukas again. He had been like a constant shadow in the light all throughout the last year, but now, his presence was so few and far between, she wondered what could be keeping him from visiting her. Surely, he did nothing more than sleep during the night—nothing important could be keeping him.

It wasn't as if he were royal, like her sisters or her father, who always constantly had a million things to do!

* * *

_Asgard_

* * *

Loki felt as he if he had a million things to do. And though he enjoyed his tutoring sessions, his horseback riding lessons and his spear-training, he was drained. He was also tired of Thor's idle chatter about the weapons ceremony that was fast approaching, where Asgard's golden son would officially inherit Mjolnir as his weapon and lifelong companion.

It was no mystery that Thor had been sneaking Mjolnir from the weapons vault for centuries, glorifying in its steely weight hanging, firmly, in his mighty fingers. And, of course, the Allfather, having been allowing Thor to utilize Mjolnir as his weapon of choice, _permittedly_, over the past century or so, was long overdo in naming it to Thor, officially.

Honestly, Loki thought it a rather dull and trivial tradition. If a warrior was going to use a weapon, then let it be so and be done with it, he believed. Like himself. His weapon of choice was a spear, though he excelled also at throwing knives. But, one did not see Odin bestowing an almighty spear on him, now did one?

Scoffing to himself, he waltzed back to his room, dabbing himself with a towel as he went, fresh from the baths, a dressing robe secured firmly around his body.

_Let them celebrate their silly ceremonies_, Loki thought, snidely, and then smiled a little to himself. _I've got better things to do._

* * *

_Russia, 1915_

* * *

Night fell like a calm rain over Russia—quiet, with the small pitter-patter of people shuffling about; they were the last of the working class, rushing home from their shifts to spend what little time the night held with their families.

Anastasia was tucked, silently, into her bed, the covers pulled up to her little chin, her hands idly fingering the spun red yarn that served as the hair of her newest doll. It looked like her, save for the shirt-button eyes, but Anastasia still had a distinct distaste for dolls. Still, it was a gift from her mother, and she cherished it all the same.

It did not calm her sorrowed heart, though. Again and again, as Maria snored in her bed across the room, Anastasia lifted her head to gaze, longingly, at the spot in the wall where she knew the secret passage lay. And again, and again, the passage did not open and Lukas did not sneak through. It was after an hour of this behavior that the tired little birthday girl finally drifted off.

Another hour passed, and suddenly, Anastasia woke with a start at the touch of cool fingers against her shoulder through her thin nightgown, and the sound of a soft, child's voice whispering, "Wake, _malenkaya,_" in her ear.

Anastasia sat up, a smile beaming on her rosy-red cheeks as she threw her arms, doll in hand, around Lukas' neck, squeezing him tightly. "I knew you would come, I just knew!" she whispered with fierce happiness. "You've come to play, haven't you?"

"Of course, _malenkaya,_" Lukas replied and took a step back, offering his hand. "It is my most pleasant honor to escort the birthday duchess into the flourishing green of the labyrinth this evening."

Anastasia giggled and took his hand, always so curious about the cold aspect of his fingers, before she stood and slid her feet into her slippers. "You speak so properly, Lukas. Even more so than Papa sometimes!"

Lukas blushed a little sheepishly, his brow furrowing and his lips pursing, as if scolding himself internally. But when Anastasia squeezed his hand and tilted her head, curiously, Lukas shook the expression away and smiled at her.

"Come, _malenkaya_. I have a special surprise for you." He led her, carefully, through the tunnel that ran under and through the palace's many room, leading her out into the twisting labyrinth that they had played in so many times over the last year.

Instead of playing chase, he ran through the labyrinth with her hand clenched tightly in his. He had a specific plan for this night, and so, with speed and determination, he pulled her through the labyrinth until they reached the very center. Sitting in the very center of the labyrinth was a sparring dummy with a sword leaning against it.

Anastasia's eyes lit up. "Lukas!"

"Come, come," he said. "You told me recently how you wished you could learn to wield a sword as those in your mother's storybooks do."

"Yes! But Papa would never allow it. I am to conduct myself a _proper_ lady! Plus, Olga says no one uses swords anymore," Anastasia murmured with a pout. "She says they are outdated now that everyone carries rifles and bayonets."

"My father says—said—that swords and spears will always be a necessity as long as war is a reality," Lukas replied, and Anastasia wondered why he always had to correct himself when he spoke of his father. It wasn't the first time she'd heard him do it.

"Now," he picked up the sword and offered it to her, hilt first. "I'll show you how to use it, shall I?"

"Yes! Oh yes, please!"

Lukas smiled and helped her to position her hands properly on the hilt. For an hour or so, they did nothing but strike at the sparring dummy, watching it spin and spin, and with each passing moment, Anastasia grew better at the skill, giggling all the while. She would prove herself ever the boy her father had wanted—even better, in fact!

As the moon moved high, high into the sky, Lukas paused their lesson and smiled at her. "That is all for tonight, I'm afraid, _malenkaya_. I do not wish to trouble you with Miss Margaretta's ill-will should you be weary for lessons tomorrow."

Anastasia pouted deeply, her little five-year-old lip jutting out very far. But Lukas merely laughed and lifted her hands, pressing an innocent kiss on each _oAsne._

"You are ever the charmer, _malenkaya_," he murmured. "But you will not sway me! I cannot be so easily tempted or tricked!"

"One day!" Anastasia proclaimed with a big, toothless grin. "One day, I will trick you, Lukas! Better than you or myself have ever tricked my sisters! You'll see—I will beat you at your own game!"

As he led her through the labyrinth back toward the secret passage, a soft smile split his face. "I look forward to that day," he murmured, and then added: "And by the way...happy birthday, _malenkaya_."

* * *

_Asgard_

* * *

"Loki."

It was a voice he had not expected to hear so late into the night. Twisting his long, lean torso around, he greeted the woman who approached him with a gentle smile and a bow, his green eyes bright with affection. "Good evening, Mother."

He turned, yet again, back to the task of opening his bedroom, the large, oaken doors swinging open with ease. He stepped inside, confidently.

Frigga, who was a picture of beauty even with her always perfectly set blonde curls falling down her back and shoulders and her body wrapped in a silken dressing gown, stepped into Loki's bedchamber after him. A deep frown set itself, firmly, onto her face.

"What brings you to my chambers so late this evening, Mother?" Loki asked as he began to undress, shrugging the long leather vest from his shoulders, allowing the green, velvet tunic beneath to rest, sashed carefully, a while longer on his form. He toed off his boots and began to gather books from his desk to put away, giving her the appearance of nonchalance, as he felt her eyes bore into the back of his neck.

"Tonight was a very important night to your brother," she murmured. "And your absence pained him, greatly."

"I was not the one receiving a weapon, Mother. My presence hardly seemed necessary," Loki replied as he shoved tome after tome into his bookshelf next to the others, before pivoting on his heel and moving, barefooted, toward his back, pulling back the lush satin bedspread to ready it for his presence.

"These traditions, darling," Frigga began, her eyes following him as he moved from one end of the large room to the next, "are a part of who we are. They are not to be taken lightly, no matter how you may feel about them. You deeply wounded your brother by ignoring such an important day. In fact, he would not allow the Allfather to begin until he had found you. He searched for nearly an _hour_."

Loki, who began to move his boots and discarded vest to a more suitable spot, paused, suddenly, and twisted his head on his neck to glance at her. A weight suddenly fell, heavy, over his heart. "Truly?"

"Yes."

Swallowing down the guilty lump that rose in his throat, he righted himself, placing his boots down at the end of his bed and hanging his vest. Sliding on some slippers that rested under his bed, he gave his mother a second respectful bow, before kissing her cheek, endearingly. "I will...go apologize."

Frigga rolled her eyes at the bow—her son, always so formal and respectable—and smiled at the kiss, before returning the gesture, moving onto her tip-toes to do so. She made a small, pouting face. "My...when did you grow so tall? You're no longer my little boy."

Loki chuckled, shaking his head silently, before he turned to leave.

Frigga grabbed his arm, softly, stopping him in his stride. With a gentle smile, she murmured, "Thank you, my dear," and let him go.

* * *

Thor lay in bed that night, flipping Mjolnir, idly, over and over again. Each time, he would flip it, andit would land, securely, handle in hand. But, as he gazed at the beautifully deadly weapon, he felt a sour bitterness rise up in him. The treasure of having a lifelong weapon seemed tarnished in that he had not been able to share the moment with his brother.

It had been wonderful that the Lady Sif and the Warriors Three had been there. And the feast that they had shared with all of Asgard to commemorate the weapon being passed into his hands had been delicious and grand. But Loki's absence saddened Thor, desperately, and a deep worry fell over the Asgardian's heart.

Had Loki been captured? Had someone sneaked in? Had he somehow hurt himself during his training and lay somewhere, incapacitated and alone?

These thoughts ate away at Thor's very center, and made him jump up from his bed with fervor, desperate to find his dying brother if it meant he had to tear through the very core of Jotunheim or Nifflheim to do it!

Then, there was a soft rapping on Thor's bedroom doors.

Pulling the massive doors ajar, his eyes widened to find his brother—much slimmer than he, when standing so near, in such stark comparison—standing in the doorway, green eyes filled with guilt (and just a twinkle of mischievous amusement).

"I've come to beg forgiveness, Brother," Loki said, his voice dripping with remorse. Perhaps not all of it was sincere, but he truly was apologetic that Thor had searched so long for him, willing to go to such lengths to have him a part of his special day. "I am most _truly_ sorry for my absence. I...lost track of time while riding Draugur."

"Draugur was in his stable when I searched for you," Thor replied, looking at Loki skeptically.

"Well, yes," Loki replied as he stepped into the room, choosing his words carefully. "He dismounted me from his back quite forcefully deep in the forest. I struck my head and was knocked unconscious. But he well trained and must have come home. I'm sure one of the stable boys put him away. I must have been out for many hours. When I woke, deep night had fallen and the Mjolnir's feast was already at an end."

Thor was suspicious, but when he glanced away a mere second, Loki magicked a small welt just south of his hair line, to the left of his pale forehead. When Thor's gaze returned to him, he noticed the welt and frowned, deeply.

"Oh, Brother, you're wounded!" Thor murmured. "You must have a healer mend that immediately lest it worsen."

"It won't," Loki said quickly, and then righted himself with a small chuckle. "I mean to say...it was much worse earlier as I was traversing back to the palace from the forest. It hasdiminished a little rather than worsened."

"Oh," Thor said, softly, and then grinned at him. "Well, it is good to see you well! And of course, my brother, all is forgiven! I will regail you with the tail of the feast and my triumphant acceptance of Mjolnir in the morn! For now, we must both rest. You have had a trying night, and mine has been most wearisome!"

Slinging a brotherly arm around Loki's shoulder, he showed him out of his room, kindly, smiling widely at him. "Goodnight, Brother! May Valhalla smile upon your rest and dreams tonight!"

With that, he closed the door, leaving Loki to stand, quietly, in the hallway, feeling a little guilty for the lie, and very irritated that he had somehow, still, not managed to get out of another of Thor's inane stories. With a heavy sigh, he shook his head, and turned, making his way, quietly, back to the comfort of his own room.

* * *

_Russia, 1915_

* * *

Papa was yelling again. Anastasia could hear him from his office—hear him even from where she sat in the front gardens, drawing pictures of herself fighting, bravely, with a sword. Things had been tense over the past year. At her young age, she did not really know what the problem was, but she knew that it caused her father to retreat into his office, often, with calls from other cities—even other countries sometimes—and shout, angrily, over the phone.

As the sun began to sink down behind the skyline of St. Petersburg, Anastasia could hear the shrill call of Miss Margaretta calling her and her sisters inside for supper. Standing, Anastasia tucked her coal pencil into her drawing notebook and wiped the coal dust that lingered on her tiny fingers on her dress. As she approached Miss Margaretta in the doorway, just behind Maria, the woman shook her head and began to lecture her on keeping her dresses neat and tidy throughout the day—_after all_, Miss Margaretta always said, _you're a young lady!_ _A duchess—a princess!_

_Sometimes, I wish I wasn't_, Anastasia thought to herself as she was shuffled to her room, quickly, by her governess, who changed her into something clean, quickly and roughly.

She sat in her usual seat at the dinner table, but as the borscht was served to each sister, Alexei and their mother, Anastasia could not help but feel a knot in the pit of her stomach upon finding that their father was not joining them. In fact, as they ate, falling just silent enough to listen to the inner-workings of the palace, they could still hear Nicholas barking at someone over the phone in very angry Russian.

Taking only a few small bites of her soup, Anastasia stood.

"Nastya," Alexandra murmured from her spot at the other end of the table. "What is it, my child?"

"May I be excused?" her tiny voice murmured, big blue eyes sitting sadly over her chubby, rose-red cheeks.

"You've barely touched your dinner!" Miss Margaretta replied. "No...no, sit and eat a few more-"

Alexandra lifted a hand, cutting the governess off and offering the entire table a soft, tired smile. "Do you not feel well?"

The child nodded, sheepishly.

"Very well, Nastenka. Why don't you go lay down? If you get hungry later, I'm sure Miss Margaretta won't mind heating your food for you."

"Thank you, Mama," said the child, quietly, before turning and rushing out of the dining room. She took the usual route back to her room and opened the door, moving inside with a quiet, childlike grace. Moving toward the window, she climbed onto the window seat and stared out at the setting sun. When it finally dipped, low and concealed, behind the city's skyline, and the very first star twinkled to life in the sky, the little girl closed her eyes tightly.

_I wish...I wish everything was different. I wish someone else could take Papa's burdens. And I wish...I wish to be far, far from here. I don't want to be a princess anymore!_

Opening her eyes, she looked around. Shaking her head, she hopped down from the window seat and went to her bed, crawling up under the covers and sighing. How often had she found herself in this very spot, wrinkling one of her nice dresses, a sick feeling rising in her stomach?

_It's just too hard._

Anastasia laid in her bed, awake, for a long while. Turned, heavily, on her side, she watched the wall where the trap-door was settled, and wondered if Lukas would appear tonight. Lukas never yelled. He never barked, or said mean words. Lukas never scolded or lectured her. Lukas was _safe_.

With thoughts of her best—her _only—_friend lingering in her mind, she let her eyes drift closed and sleep claimed her.

* * *

"Nicholas."

Tsar Nicholas sat behind his desk, wearily. He had just finished his phone call, and was, tiredly, pouring over the documents scattered across the ornate decorated wooden surface beneath him. However, the sound of his wife's voice, like a bell, caused him to raise his head, and he offered her a shuddering smile.

Alexandra moved deeper into the office and placed herself, with all the grace and regality of an Empress, in one of the seats that rested on the other side of the desk. Her incredibly long, elegantly twisted curls fell down over her shoulders, her long silken nightgown covered, but only just, by the satin dressing gown she had draped over her. Her blue eyes glittered at her husband.

She was ever the picture of elegance and beauty—a glimpse into her youngest daughter's future.

"My love," the Empress murmured, smiling. "Come to bed. You're working yourself to death."

"If I am to die, it will not be my work which kills me, but these damn uprisings!" Nicholas growled, and then frowned when he noticed the sad, frightened expression that drifted into Alexandra's eyes. "Forgive me, my dear. It is just that these small factions of Bolsheviks are getting bolder. The more I allow this insolence to stand, the more dangerous Russia becomes. And you know all I have ever wanted is to build a safe place for our children to grow."

"Yes, I know," the woman murmured. "But I believe Russia's future will keep until morning, husband. Please, come and sleep. It is late."

"Are the children asleep?" Nicholas asked, standing from his desk, his fingers straightening the papers, absently, organizing the disheveled surface.

"They are. For hours now," the woman replied, standing herself. Nicholas admired her, immediately. The supple material of her night clothes fell, flatteringly, over each of her beautiful curves and he reached out, taking her hand and pulling her to him. Pressing a soft kiss to her lips, he smiled.

"Then, I suppose it is time for bed."

Alexandra offered a soft laugh, and hugged him, carefully. "Worry not, my love. I very much doubt that these rebellions will stand. You're much to fair and just a ruler for the Russia we know and love to allow for such things. We will endure."

From just outside the doors, Anastasia stood, listening at the door. She had gone to bed much earlier than her sisters, and had thus woken only a few hours later. She had been half-hoping Lukas would be there when she woke, but found he was not. But she could hear her father still on the phone, so she'd sneaked out of her room and through the halls to his office.

She had never meant nor wanted to hear the conversation. Rebellions? Uprisings? Rushing back to her room before anyone could catch her, she paused in the middle of the floor and, with a whispered shout, cried, "Lukas! Lukas! Please...I need you, Lukas..."

But when he did not come, she simply sank, quietly, onto the floor and let the silent, fearful tears fall down her face, freely.

* * *

"And being found in appeance as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient to the point of death, even the death of the cross." Phillipians 2:8

_Please_ review.


	4. Chapter 3

I am writing in protest! Protest that KH3 is coming out on PS4! So I'm going to drown my sorrows in the sorrows of others—of a grand duchess and her best friend...and the impending sadness that creeps up on both of them.

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

* * *

Chapter 3

* * *

_Russia, 1916_

* * *

They were increasing rumors of a revolution at the end of 1916. On top of that, a war raged around their country that frightened them. They were very little involved, but not completely. It was a dangerous time for all. Because of this, around October, Anastasia and her sisters were confined more and more to the palace and asked, repeatedly, by her parents and Miss Margaretta not to go outside unsupervised.

Of course, Anastasia didn't listen.

Every night that Lukas appeared, Anastasia was quick to take his hand and let him lead her wherever he wanted to go. Anastasia began to understand that there was more to Lukas' magic than simple parlor tricks and magician sleight of hand. He was truly magical.

As their friendship progressed, Lukas began to take her places she never would have dreamed she'd ever get to visit—like Paris and Rome. He would magick her away, and they would sit atop the Eiffel tower, eating ice cream and laughing as the stars twinkled overhead. Or they would sit near the Trevi Fountain, and he would manifest coins for her to throw in—endless amounts of coins for endless amounts of wishes.

Every wish was the same though: _Let this friendship never end. Let this happiness never end. Let it be like this forever._

One day, near the end of October, Anastasia sat with Lukas inside the face of Big Ben, as the streets of England buzzed below them, and the hands of the clock ticked counterclockwise from where they sat—a strange, surreal foreshadowing of the inevitable future that Anastasia wished would never come.

As they sat inside the clock face, and Lukas made horse-drawn carriages out of pure energy, small enough to gallop around Anastasia's head and make her giggle, the girl turned to him, smiling, her eyes alight with the whimsical imagination of a six year old—her heart beating with the desperation to make her wishes a reality.

"Lukas," she said, pulling her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them and allowing her red curls, which were so long now that they touched the wooden floor beneath her as she sat, to cascade over her shoulders. She smiled at him. "When I'm big and your big...will you marry me?"

Lukas paused in his magic, the horse-and-carriage disappearing immediately. He dropped his hands into his lap, suddenly, and offered her a very open and honest gaze as a curious smile bread across his lips. "What an odd question, _malenkaya_. I'm sure such a match is not-"

"Allowed? I don't care! I'm tired of doing what I'm told!" the child shrieked, pouting suddenly. "Everyone tells me to stay inside because it isn't safe! Everyone tells me I'm a naughty girl and to stay in my room! Everyone always, _always_ tells me what to do because I'm the youngest girl! No one ever scolds Alexei! He can never do any wrong! But me, I'm always the one to blame!"

"Alexei is barely a toddler," Lukas offered, quietly, but Anastasia merely harrumphed and turned her face from him.

In his mind, he had his own reasons for avoiding the silly question. He found it cute—endearing even—but he knew it could never be. Even with his life the way it was, even with the movement of time acting, perhaps, in their favor, he just knew it could never be. He would never bind himself to her like that. She deserved better.

"_Malenkaya_," he murmured, her expression soft and inviting. "You are a princess. A beautiful, charming princess. You must find a prince worthy of you. I am...just a gardener's apprentice, remember? Surely, there are boys much more suited to you."

"But none of those boys are my best friend," she replied. "None of them are you, Lukas. You come to me when I am sad and make me happy again. You are the best of any boy! Even Alexei."

"I am but a shadow," he murmured, finally, green eyes flitting away from her poignant gaze. He said no more than that.

"Well," Anastasia began, standing and placing her hands on her hips with all the determination of a six year old who clearly knew everything there was to know. "You're much more than a shadow! You're...you're...oh, I know! You're Peter Pan!"

Lukas eyes twisted to her, suddenly. His eyebrow crooked.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, it's only obvious!" she replied, smiling widely. "You're a magical boy from a faraway land who never grows up! You must be Peter Pan! And the shadow is your naughty shadow who never listens! But that's okay because I can be Wendy and I'll sew your shadow back on just right!"

She paused and frowned, suddenly. "Except..."

"Except?"

"Well, I'm awfully bad at sewing," she replied with a pout. "I hate it, in fact."

Lukas only laughed, and shook his head. "That's alright, _malenkaya_. I don't think I mind being a naughty shadow once in a while. It gives me a reason to play tricks on prim little girls who don't understand how to have fun."

"Like my sisters!"

"Yes," Lukas said, his smile steady, "like your sisters."

And as Anastasia took her seat across from him again, in the darkness of Big Ben's clock face, she made herself a silent vow. Lukas understood her—was just like her. And someday, when she was older and didn't have to worry about being a princess anymore, she _would_ convince him to marry her.

How foolish the dreams of a child can be.

* * *

_Asgard_

* * *

"Loki acts strangely these days, darling. Have you noticed?"

Frigga sat near her husband in their shared bed, reading a tome of fantasy from Asgard's many legends. Her husband, Odin Allfather, lay a little deeper against the mattress, his eyes scanning a parchment, his fingers moving an inked quill quickly across the pages. Without even lowering the pages, he murmured, "How do you mean?"

His voice was distant—distracted and detached.

"He spends much more time in his room than he used to, pouring over his spell books. He leaves only to train and ride Draugur, and then returns. And Heimdall has told Thor and I on countless occassions that he will lose track of Loki's whereabouts during odd hours of the day. Does this not concern you? He is your son after all."

Finally, Odin lowered the papers and glanced at his wife. "He is a young man, my love. Prone to explore and discover. Perhaps even traverse into danger, of which he must figure out how to get out. These will help him to grow as a man and a warrior. Worry not, my wife, he is merely expressing what an AEsir his age will."

"Yes, but Odin, you know he is not fully-"

There was a knock on the door, and it opened, carefully, before any command to do so was given. A head of jet-black hair, slicked to reach only his neck, peeked in and Loki gazed upon his parents, earnestly. "May I speak with you?"

Frigga smiled a little sheepishly, realizing how very close she came to offering information to Loki he may not have been ready to hear. Waving him inside, she sat up a little straighter as he trekked, quietly, into the room, his dark green tunic hanging loose upon his slim, toned frame.

"What is it, my Loki?" Frigga asked, all of the compassion and endearing merit of a loving mother tucked behind her words.

"Actually, I have a query of Father," Loki murmured, but offering his mother an affectionate smile, which quickly fell to serious when he let his eyes wander back to Odin. The Allfather had lifted his parchments to work again.

"What is it?" Odin said, his voice terse with a tremor of impatiance.

"Father, I wonder if I might take leave to Vanaheim. I find myself restless here and feel I would benefit from the wisdom of our cousins," he said. Something had shaken him up. Frigga could tell by the way he hid his hands behind his back, for she knew he only did that when they shook with uncertainty.

"Vanaheim is not always the safest place for our kind," Odin said around his documents. "Your cousins Frejya and Freyr are not always so welcoming. Perhaps you might take Thor with you. He has more experience with them. And he can keep you company, hm?"

Loki's face darkened, slightly, but he offered a tight smile in return. "Of course. What an excellent idea, Father. Brother and I have been meaning to spend more time together lately. I did miss his weapon ceremony, after all. It seems only fair that I should invite him."

"Splendid idea," Odin said, distantly. "Then, I will arrange it." He looked up from his pages. "Will that be all, my son?"

"Yes, Father. Thank you very much for your ear," the youngest Odinson replied, bowing deeply, before turning on his heel and leaving, abruptly.

Frigga watched him go with a curious frown. Something was going on inside his heart.

If she could only figure out what.

* * *

_Russia, 1916_

* * *

The autumn turned to chilly winter, and as the snow began to leave a cold, pure white blanket over the Russian landscape, Anastasia became as isolated as a bear. Because of the fury of the war, the threat of revolution, and the coldness of the Russian winter, she and her sisters were completely confined to the palace. Even with supervision, the girls were unable to travel outdoors or see anyone apart from each other, their parents and Miss Margaretta.

And since Anastasia never got along well with her family, she found herself confined to the drawing room often when they were not occupying it. She often drew pictures of herself and Lukas, read books (her most favorite now was Peter Pan) and sat on the floor, staring pensively into the fireplace, her hands clasped thoughtfully atop her crossed legs.

It wasn't simply her family, however, that nursed her isolation, but her best friend himself. The first few nights of the Romanovas isolated winter Anastasia waited, eagerly, for Lukas to appear. But to no avail. He did not come, and by early December, Anastasia was convinced he would ever come again.

Had she frightened him off? Or, was he truly Peter, doomed to live forever as a boy, while she, Wendy, was destined always to grow up—and grow away from him?

Finally, she stopped waiting for him.

Later that month, as Christmas neared, the Romanovas self-inflicted isolated lifted a little, as servants shuffled about the palace, decorating for the holiday. Anastasia loved Christmas. It was always so colorful and free. It made her feel as if she were living in a fantasy. For a moment, she could disappear from her strangling world and be the six year old child she was meant to be.

Because of the holiday, a few of the Romanova relatives began to float in and out of the palace, leaving presents for the children, having dinner with the family, and swiftly rushing off for their own safety and the family's.

It was two days before Christmas Eve that the longest of these visits took place.

Anastasia's aunt, Grand Duchess Olga Alexandrovna, for whom her sister Olga was named, came blowing into their lives in a flurry of warm furs and beautiful gowns. She was the picture of a proper woman, even moreso than Anastasia's mother, holding herself with a straightness, a superiority, that Anastasia found...

Frightening.

_I never want to be like her. I am more than that_.

Anastasia watched her move through the palace foyer, handing her luggage over to a servant, pushing her fur wrap and coat off to a maid, and moving with an upright grace that gave her a look as if someone had tied a broomstick to her back.

The little duchess sighed. _Right, Lukas?_

There was no answer. There was never any answer for her _Piotr_ anymore.

Grand Duchess Olga paused when she saw Anastasia watching her from around the corner, and, with her nose upturned, she tilted her eyes to the child and examined her with a haunting calmness. Without saying a word, she continued on, speaking to the maid who carried her winter layers, practically demanding that the woman bring her to Anastasia's parents, immediately.

Anastasia did all she could to avoid Aunt Olga for the next few days. The woman made her extremely uncomfortable, and the urge to cry seemed to surface in her heart and her throat whenever she was caught in the hallway by her, or sitting across the breakfast table from her.

It was Christmas Eve when Anastasia's dislike of Aunt Olga came to a head. Each of the children were sitting around the Christmas tree in the parlor, shaking the many Christmas packages to try and find out what they had been given for Christmas.

Anastasia did not feel like participating, however, as Aunt Olga was sitting in a rocking chair nearby, rocking back and forth, her eyes boring into all of them when they were not diligently focused on her embroidery. Instead, Anastasia turned her attention to her sisters and grinned.

"I bet Mama and Papa got you all socks!" Anastasia cried, and Tatiana rolled her eyes.

"And why would they not also get you socks, Nastya?" she asked, and picked up one of Anastasia's gifts, shaking the box. "I don't hear anything, Nastenka, it must be socks!"

"So? I don't care if they got me socks! At least my socks will be lovely socks!" Anastasia replied. "And all of your socks will be little boy socks—black and wool and itchy!"

Maria's lip jutted out, and trembled. "That's not true. Mama and Papa would not be so cruel. They would get us stockings—lovely, lacy stockings!"

"No, they wouldn't!" Anastasia cried, jumping up and dancing around her sisters. "They got you all socks! Or worse, they got you trousers and blazers! They're to dress you all as little boys!"

"That's enough, Anastasia," Aunt Olga said, suddenly, lifting her eyes. "You will stop this nonsense. You are all little ladies—you will dress as such. Your mother and father would never go against this."

"Little boys! Little boys! So that Papa will have all the little boys he would ever want!" Anastasia continued. She was not about to let someone besides those directly in charge of her stop her game.

"I said that's _enough_, Anastasia," Aunt Olga said again, her voice rising, tersely. "You will stop this mean play at once."

"Olga and Tatiana and Maria, all dressed in trousers and blazers! And then, Papa will come, with sharp, sharp scissors and he'll cut off all your curls and make you change your names! Little boys, little boys!"

And as Anastasia laughed, Maria began to cry, grabbing for her curls protectively, and Tatiana and Olga sat in angry silence, listening, impatiently, as their sister giggled and giggled, chanting, "Little boys, little boys!"

None of them saw it coming.

Aunt Olga was up out of her chair, immediately, and before any of them could say or do anything, a hand shot out and the snap of tight flesh meeting the baby-fat skin of a porcelain cheek rang through the parlor.

Everyone fell silent, and Anastasia raised her hand to her cheek, her eyes glazing over with unshed tears. Aunt Olga stood over her, huffing, looking disheveled, and when she had composed herself, she straightened her skirts and returned to her embroidery, carefully.

Anastasia gazed at her sisters, her mouth hanging agape, her eyes begging them to say or do something. But when they merely averted their glances, she bit down on her bottom lip and stood. She would not cry. Not until she made it to her room.

Offering a quiet apology to her sisters, she rushed out of the parlor, whipping past Aunt Olga and into her room, where she let the river of tears fall down her face, small sobs wracking her little body.

It was several minutes of uninterrupted crying before a small hand—cool to the touch and immediately recognizable—slid onto her shoulder.

"_Malenkaya_," whispered a voice, so near to her ear. "What's wrong?"

Wiping at her eyes, she glanced at him out of the corner of them, the blue orbs swollen and red. She was glaring at him through the glaze of tears and she shrugged his hand away. "Why do you care?"

Lukas frowned, and placed his hand on her head. "I do."

"If you cared so much, why have you not come to play with me in months?" she replied, sniffling, her hand coming up to wipe, weakly, at her nose. "You do not like me anymore, so why would you care why I'm crying?"

"That's untrue, _malenkaya_. I like you very much. You're my most cherished friend," Lukas replied. "Please, tell me why you cry."

Anastasia was silent, her back to him for a long moment, before she finally turned to him, revealing the swollen red mark that sat, angry, on her cheek. Lukas let out a small gasp and reached out, touching the irritated area, the coolness of his fingers immediately soothing the wound.

"Who _did_ this?" Lukas asked, his whole body shuddering with anger.

"My aunt," murmured the child, her voice small and meek. "She very much dislikes me—she does not like when little girls play tricks and tease. She is a _real lady_."

"That matters not!" Lukas hissed, and his eyes turned red for a moment, before settling back to green. "She should _not _have struck you. You are but a child and you were merely playing. What a _cruel_ thing to do."

Anastasia swiped at her eyes with her hands again and then shrugged. "At least she is here. She has _been_ here. You have not."

"I'm sorry, _malenkaya_. I was...away for a little while. Straightening some things out." _In my heart_. "But I have returned and I...I should not have left. I promised I would always find you...but I will amend that promise now."

Anastasia's curious gaze turned to him.

"I promise from here on that not only will I always find you...but I will _always_ protect you," he murmured.

Anastasia glanced at him, a tiny inkling of suspicion flitting through her moist blue eyes, before whispering, meekly, "Always?"

There was a determination in his eyes—an earnestness that not even a six year old could deny—as he repeated: "Always."

For the moment, his words were truth. He truly believed he could protect her, always, and she truly believed he would.

For the moment, they were the best of friends again.

And, just before midnight, as Lukas disappeared through the secret passage with a smiling goodbye, Anastasia believed that the best Christmas present she had ever gotten was the return of her best, most cherished friend.

For the moment, in the heart of a child, despite war and revolution, the world was right once again.

* * *

This chapter is kind of short but I hope you enjoyed.

_Piotr_ = Russian version of "Peter"

* * *

"Yet in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us." Romans 8:37

_Please _review.


	5. Chapter 4

I've taken to watching _Sherlock_. Now I want to write _Sherlock _and _Elementary _crossover fanfiction. Honestly, I have a problem, where I want to be in every fandom all at once and love them all. I am an ultimate fangirl.

Enough rambling. To _Malenkaya_! (Things are about to get interesting.)

Disclaimer: I lay no claim to any of this material, these histories or these characters/people. This is for my own and others amusement only.

* * *

Chapter 4

* * *

_Russia, 1917_

* * *

There was an attempted bombing on the palace in mid February. A grenade came through the window of Maria and Anastasia's room at midnight. Maria had sneaked into her parents room earlier that night because of a nightmare. Anastasia had been sleeping soundly when she left.

Then, they heard the explosion.

Nicholas and Alexandra rushed to their daughters' room, quickly, and Alexandra practically fainted, hot, moist tears coming down her face immediately when she saw the flames engulfing the door frame. She believed Anastasia dead.

Until...

"Mama, Papa!"

Both turned to find Anastasia standing at the other end of the hall—from just the direction they had come. Both of the child's parents rushed her, sweeping her up into four long, warm arms, smothering her with kisses and the wet dribble of tears. They never understood how she had survived—how she had slipped right past them in the hall. It was a miracle they never questioned.

They were merely pleased she lived.

And from just down the hall and around a corner, a boy of ten—perpetually ten, _always_ ten—watched them hug and kiss her with a smile, though his eyes spoke of fear and uncertainty as the flames of a rogue grenade danced in their green depths. Something was coming. He could feel it. Something _terrible._

_But I made you a promise, _malenkaya_, to protect you. I _will_ protect you._

With that, his form faded in a shudder of golden energy and he was gone. Anastasia never saw him go.

* * *

Within the week, the royal family had relocated to their safehouse in Ekaterinburg. And though it was hard for the girls—and three year old Alexei—to leave their home, they knew it was for the best. Anastasia had been getting nothing but doted on since the incident with the grenade, and though she enjoyed them giving her a little positive attention for once, her mind was elsewhere. Even at the age of six and a half, she understood the reality of prevalent danger.

And that her family was in it.

Sitting quietly in the tiny bedroom she now shared with her three sisters and Alexei, she pulled at the rose-red curls of a raggedy old doll. The only doll they had been able to save from the palace—found in a musty old suitcase from when Olga was a child, before Maria or Anastasia were born. It was her old doll, and it was to be shared by the three of them—and Alexei if he so wished—because it was the only comfort of home they had.

Even Anastasia could admit to loving the doll for the sole purpose of remembering her childhood home. Something told her she would never see it again.

Placing the doll down, finally, she stood, brushing off the old, yellowing skirts of her dress. They were each dressed in much older hand-me-down clothes from each other, and from the generosity of nearby poorhouses—though Nicholas was always cautious when entering one, as much of the Revolution revolved around the fact that they wanted to blame him for the fact that they even had to exist.

_Unequal distribution of wealth_, they claimed.

_Top heavy_, they argued.

But Nicholas would give away his entire fortune to keep his family safe, if that's what it would take. He would never risk his wife, his girls or his son for any amount of money. Not any.

Anastasia knew that as well. The fact that his father had given up any and all luxuries—had sunken to begging in poor houses for clothing for his children—was a testament to how much their safety meant to him. Still, she felt an unease that unsettled her. Even at her young age, she could feel the tension of the country growing.

_Her_ country.

She could feel it. The very fabric of patriotic admiration and understanding crumbling.

What was that word her father always used to describe the camaraderie of a group? The stand-togetherness.

_Regime_.

And hers was falling right before her eyes.

"_You're too intelligent for your own good sometimes, _malenkaya,_" _Lukas had once said to her. _"Much too clever."_

He had been speaking in reference to her repeated attempts to try and outwit him. To no avail, but she was getting closer. Closer to outsmarting him. And that had brought her joy. For the moment. However, now, her intelligence was getting the better of her.

She could hear and see practically everything that happened in the tiny space she and her family lived in now. Even at night, when her parents whispered, she could discern their voices through paper thin walls—hear the soft sobbing of her mother. Practically hear the drip-drop of her tears hitting the cold, stone floor. She did not cry for loss of beautiful gowns and grand parties. She cried for the fear of grenades in Anastasia's room. She cried for fear of cries and picketers in the street, demanding Nicholas' head on a platter.

She cried for fear of bullets riddling her childrens' bodies. Fears. So many fears that she just could not shake.

And Anastasia heard them all.

* * *

It was in the weeks to come that Lukas' visits, though rare because of how much more dangerous it was to maneuver around her sleeping sisters in such a small space, became the escape she desperately needed.

It was the week after her seventh birthday that Anastasia finally allowed the stress of an adult world, infiltrating the heart and mind of a child, to spill out of her. She and Lukas were sitting atop the head of Sphinx in Egypt, and as Anastasia watched horses off in the distance race across the desert, their riders wrapped in tunics and turbans of the finest silk, blades drawn, battling one another across the sands for possession of gods-knew-what.

She just loved to watch them battle. She wanted to be just like them. An adventurer who could defend herself, and protect all that was important to her.

Especially now more than ever.

Finally, as this thought settled onto her tiny seven year old shoulders, she turned to Lukas, her big blue eyes welled with such fat, immense tears that it worried him, immediately. Suddenly, without saying a word, she began to sob, the tears falling down her face in rivers, her whole body shuddering, her crying so loud that an animal in the distance responded to the sound in kind.

It was as if the desert itself could feel her pain.

Lukas frowned, and, in silent understanding, he slid an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into the cool comfort of his body. He said nothing. He knew he didn't have to. He knew what she carried in her tiny heart, and how she did so with such grace and charm. She was the bravest person he'd ever known. And that spoke volumes.

Kissing her temple, he continued to hold her close as she cried, wondering for a moment what had drawn him to her. He had seen her one day—it was a fluke. A misstep in a spell that had given him a temporary sort of Sight. He had seen her, sitting among her siblings, but not really interacting with them. It was as if an imaginary barrier had been drawn between them and she was on the outside.

And he had related to her, immediately. Understood her. Felt _empathy_ toward her. And somehow, he had known that they were connected in an odd sort of way. That they always had been. They they always would be.

And he had wanted to know her. He didn't know why. But he had wanted to know her. On _her_ level. In _her_ way. And be everything he'd never been allowed to be—playful without a warrior's expectation.

To be a _real_ child—that is, a child without a care in the world.

But now, as he watched his best friend sob, as he veritably _felt_ the weight in her heart, he knew he had it wrong. She may have seemed carefree at first. But she had _every _care in the world right now—in _her_ world.

And watching her try to shoulder it all alone was killing him.

"_Malenkaya_," he whispered into her ear. "Talk to me. I'm here. I will always listen. I will always be here."

"Yes, but, maybe someday," she began and looked up at him with the most serious eyes he'd ever seen on such a young child. "I won't be."

It shook him to his core. It shook him to his _heart_.

And for once, he had nothing to say.

* * *

_Asgard_

* * *

Loki sat in silence at dinner. His whole demeanor was twisted in thought—his whole face furrowed and pensive. His fingers were steepled, his elbows resting on the ornate carved wood of the table under him, his back curving slightly, bending forward, as his green orbs studied the wood-and-gold surface—or rather, stared _through_ it.

Odin ate as if all were normal, but both Thor and Frigga watched Loki as he tapped his index finger against the knuckle of his opposite hand, his mouth not taking in one morsel of his dinner so far. He looked sad—and distressed. He looked angry—and scheming. So many emotions played through on his face, and having all at once, in such a mischievous mind as Loki's, was never good.

Finally, he noticed them watching him, his green eyes jerking to them, sharply. An intensity they couldn't quite pinpoint flashed through the emerald orbs before he stood, bowing to his father, and asking, "May I be excused?"

Odin placed his fork down, glanced at Loki's plate, and finally he murmured, "Is there something wrong, my son?"

"I fell unwell, Father, and I wish to retire. May I _please_ be excused?"

Odin pursed his lips, wishing to debate with the sudden bout of sickness that seemed to come over the young man. However, he did not wish to cause any issue with anyone in his family over dinner and so he nodded. "Very well, Loki. We will keep your supper well until you wish to finish it."

Giving another small bow, Loki turned, stalking out of the grandiose dining hall and into one of the long, golden hallways of the palace. He was almost to his room when _her_ face from just a few nights before jumped into his mind—crying, heavy, and then serious. So serious.

"_Someday, I won't be."_

Loki stopped dead in his tracks, and let out a gasp, a few stray tears trekking down his face. Suddenly, as if losing all the feeling in his body, he slumped against the wall, and those few tears turned to many. Before he realized it, he was crying silent but very real tears, his face twisted in pain, his long, slender fingers coming up, pressing against his eyes and forehead, trying to, physically, push back the fear—the pain—the loneliness.

Suddenly, a gentle hand rested against his shoulder, and Loki jumped, turning his body with a quickness that caused his comforter to jump back. Loki was suddenly face to face with his brother, who's eyes held a concern far deeper than a disconnected sibling—there was a care in his eyes that Loki had forgotten Thor held. A deep understanding, brother to brother.

He could not tell him the reason for his tears. But he swallowed hard, and calmed the raging storm in his heart, but still allowed the tears to fall, freely, slowly, down his face.

And Thor did not ask. Merely placed his strong, burly hand against Loki's shoulder again and squeezed.

Finally, he smiled, gently, and murmured, "Would you...like to spar, Brother?"

Though it wasn't his favorite activity, the fact that Thor had offered—offered for his sake—caused his heart to swell with a brotherly pride he hadn't felt in a long, long while. Offering a shuddering smile in return, he gave a silent nod.

Perhaps things would be okay, after all.

* * *

_Russia, 1917_

* * *

It was late August and the weather was warm, but not uncomfortably so. However, in such closed quarters with so many people living in one place, it was a little stuffy. Maria and Olga was embroidering, their hands working rusted needles through old pieces of cloth just to give them something to do. Alexei was playing with the old rag doll that the children shared, and Tatiana was asleep, curled up on a musty old sofa that sat in the corner.

Nicholas was out—most likely negotiating with his constituents and trying to quell the Revolution from the inside—and Alexandra was sitting, her legs covered by long, frayed skirts, on a hard metal folding chair in front of a painting easel. Her long, slender arm jutted out, a paintbrush grasped in her beautiful hands, as she ran the brush in long, deft strokes against the canvas.

She lifted her blue eyes every now and again to glance at her subject, and soft, sad smile playing on her lips. Her model, for the time being, was her youngest daughter, sitting on the floor of their small safehouse. The child's face lost in thought, her (now long) red curls falling in waves over her shoulders, the frayed frills of her dress draped over her stockinged legs like a beautiful, old blanket, and the toes of her feet curling and uncurling, unconsciously, in their shoeless state.

Alexandra had seen the girl, sitting. Just _sitting_, with that pensive look on her face, and found the position too endearing not to paint. She said nothing to her daughter. She asked no questions. Whatever was so heavily on the child's mind was her own business. She simply painted her, carefully, preciously, and with a precision all her own.

In fact, it was Anastasia who broke the silence between them at long last.

"Mama," she said, and Alexandra could hear the way her voice had grown in the last few years—it was steadier now, and a little deeper, but held enough childlike presence to be enamoring. Alexandra smiled and looked to her.

"Yes, Nastenka?"

"Are you frightened?" she asked.

Alexandra offered her child a curious expression at the question, her brow furrowing a little before she turned her attention back to her easel and continued her work. "Frightened?"

"Of the bad men?" the young girl asked.

"Bad men, Nastya?" the young queen replied.

"The ones who want to hurt our family."

Anastasia watched her, carefully. Only her mother had ever made her want, for the smallest moment, to be a lady. She was beautiful—her body so lean and curving, her neck long and pale, and her face a sculpture of sharp features and pretty, flushed pale skin. Many in their family had said that of all the daughters, Anastasia herself looked most like her mother. That she would grow to look just like her.

Alexandra was not just beautiful with a subtle grace, however. She was kind, and strong-willed. She spoke with passion when she needed to, and offered smiles to all of her children, even when they were being scolded. If that was what it meant to _truly_ be a lady, then perhaps being a lady would not be so bad after all.

Something told Anastasia she'd never get the opportunity, however. Her words were a verbilization of this fear.

And with that, Alexandra's strokes abruptly paused, and her eyes slid to her daughter, carefully, a subtle sadness washing over her beautiful features. "Oh, Nastenka..." Placing her brush down, Alexandra moved from her spot, sliding onto her floor, her skirts fanning out around her and making her seem like a queen from a fairy-tale.

Her arms slid around her youngest, and she now understood the expression of great pensive on her child's face—the girl was holding the weight of her broken world like a heavy brick in her heart. How had she or Nicholas not seen this? Anaastasia had always been the cleverest of their girls—to clever for her own, sweet good.

"My little Nastya," she whispered, brushing her fingers through the child's crimson curls—just a shade darker than her own. "Your Papa will not let _anyone_ hurt our family. We will be alright, my little love. We will be fine. You'll see...we will be back home by next year, and all of this will have cooled. Your father will make certain of that."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes, my little Nastenka, I think so," Alexandra said, gently.

Anastasia was not convinced but she nodded all the same, tucking her head into the crook of her mother's shoulder. _We'll be fine_, her mind said, and then repeated, _we'll be fine. _

She just wished she believed it.

* * *

August ended and September came and went without issue. Lukas appeared once or twice, and Anastasia understood the necessity for his scarcity with the rest of her family living in such close quarters. During one of his visits, he took her into the New York, just as the leaves on the trees were changing colors for autumn, leading her through Central Park after dark, picking the last of the blooming flowers for her to tuck into her red curls, trying to distract her from the pain of her situation.

Trying to figure out how he, himself, could fix it. His priority was her. He would _always_ save her. But he knew her family meant the world to her—despite the way they'd always treated her before. It had once been harder for him to understand why—except of late.

He was beginning to understand the comfort of family in difficult times.

He never mentioned this to her though. She still knew so little of him, and he wished to keep it that way. It wasn't as if he wanted to hide himself from her, but he wanted to keep this slice of childhood all to himself. He didn't want to ruin it with the complications of truth.

Until one day, in early October, when he had been searching Russia, looking for the evidence of the Revolution, with hope that perhaps the torches of anarchy were cooling on their own. He found so much more of it than he'd wished to. It was growing, instead. It was getting _worse_. And a gnawing unease began to grow, suddenly, in his heart.

It was only a matter of time now. Perhaps, for the safety of his _malenkaya_, the complications of truth were worth facing.

Perhaps.

* * *

_Asgard_

* * *

Loki was flipping through his spell books with a speed and anxiousness that was palpable in the room around him. He was looking for something, _anything_ that he could that would allow him the power to transport an entire group of people through the pathways in between Yggdrasil's branches. He knew it was a nearly impossible task with his magic at the level it was—that only the Bifrost could bring such a large group through to Asgard safely—but he had to try. For her.

For _Anastasia._

He had been calculating and scheming for weeks, trying to decide what the best course of action was. He had thought of sending Anastasia and her family, as a group, to another country, but he felt something larger than revolution coming in the tiny realm of Midgard, and he knew it was only a matter of time before they would be found—because whoever wanted Nicholas dead would take Russia—and if they found out that he and his family were still alive, out there, they would _fight _to keep the country for themselves.

_Only a matter of time. _It seemed to come down to that. Always.

Then, he had thought, _perhaps, I can take them one by one_. But Anastasia would always be his priority. He would bring her first. And if, by some horrible chance, her family did not _all_ make the journey safely—if they were found by their dissenters before he could finish his task—it would destroy her. She would never be the same, and his heart, which she cradled so gently in her tiny hands, would die with her.

No. He had to save them all. In one, fell swoop. He would bring them to Asgard. His father would understand—he was a warrior but his prerogative had always been to shelter, courageously, the lives of those who thrived on Yggdrasil's branches. He would simply explain the situation. Odin would agree.

_That's a uncertainty_, his heart spoke, loudly, to him suddenly as he flipped through books—so many books. His father did not take kindly to tampering with the natural order of things. To bring humans to Asgard long term...could be potentially dangerous to the flow of Yggadrasil's life energy. But as he scowled, deeply, he shook the idea from his head. _I care not. I must do this. I must do this for _her_. _

And if nothing else, his mother would understand. She would help him bring reason and sense to his father. She would understand the nature of his actions—not ones of mischief, but of compassion and kindness. Of friendship and love.

He just had to find _the right spell_.

_If_ it even existed.

* * *

_Russia, 1917._

* * *

"Mr. Petrovitch, I'm uncertain how this _project_ of yours will be of any use to our cause."

Ivan Petrovitch massaged his temples as he watched Vladimir Lenin stand from his desk and move across the room to the window, his back to him. The Bolshevik leader turned his eyes on the young man sitting in the worn leather chair on the other side of his desk and shook his head.

"This is supposed to be a nation of equals, Ivan," he said, his demeanor relaxing a little as well as his speech. "That is what we strive for. What would I say if our allies found out we were training some sort of _soldiers_? Soliders that could hide in plain sight."

"Sir," Ivan said, standing, his hands moving to straighten the jacket and tie. "No regime can function _without_ some kind of soldier. And what better kind in a nation of equals than those who are _equal_? Soliders that can hide in plain sight means they would be nothing more than equal citizens, driven to ensure_ your _vision, and no one would ever be any the wiser. They would believe them to be concerned compatriots, striving to uphold the utopian world you built for them. They would _thank_ them, if nothing else."

Lenin stroked his chin, his fingers brushing the dark, pointed beard. His eyes shifted from his desk to Ivan, and he was silent.

"And," Ivan continued, his hands moving with curious grace over the shelves and shelves full of books Lenin kept on his bookcases in his office, "they would also be trained to move in and out of the country undetected as well. They would not only be able to blend here, but _anywhere. _They would be able to stave off _any_ of your enemies."

Lenin's eyes settled on Ivan, and his eyebrow raised.

"They would be _completely_ loyal to us—to _you_ and your cause. And they would be able to uphold it," Ivan said, finally.

Lenin was quiet for a long time, sitting behind his desk once again. He watched Ivan, folding his hands atop the wooden surface. He cleared his throat, his eyes quirking to the side for a moment, before turning back to Ivan. "Women, you say?"

"Yes. No one would ever suspect."

Lenin pursed his lips. "And where would you get any woman willing to participate in such things?"

Ivan smirked, pulling a book off of the shelf and opening it. "Norse mythology, sir? Doesn't seem like something you buy into."

"It isn't. Mostly it is an entertainment—something to take my mind off of the inevitabilities of revolution. But you didn't answer my question, Ivan."

The man closed the book with a solid snap and grinned at his leader. He knew it would take some time. Even without Lenin's money, he had been able to get his program off of the ground. Some of his..._recruits_...were almost ready, even now. But still, it would take time.

Having Lenin's support, however—having the backing of a man so close to seizing immeasurable power—would be an incalculable asset.

"Well, Ivan?"

Ivan's grin never faltered.

"Well sir," he said, his voice hauntingly low, "you leave _that_ to me."

* * *

October.

October was cold. Not physically so—not so much yet. Sure, the chill of winter was beginning to roll in. But there was a cold fear that fell over October. _Especially_ for the Romanova family.

Nicholas had been recognized at one of the poor houses, and in his fear, he had fled, despite the desperate need for new clothes for Alexei, who, as he crawled, walked and played, wore through his so quickly because of his age. In his mad dash, the poor man who'd recognized him began to shout _Tsar Nicholas, Tsar Nicholas_ for all in the immediate area to hear.

It was only a matter of time now. The reality was that the anarchists probably knew they were in Ekaterinburg now. And soon, they would find the safehouse.

When Nicholas had returned from the excursion, he told Alexandra everything. That night, they began to pack. They were leaving. By morning, they and their family would be gone from this place. He would _not_ be the reason his family suffered. He would not be the reason his family _died._

Anastasia stood, silent, as her mother helped her into her coat. Silent.

"Nastya," she whispered, looking up into her eyes. "All will be well."

Anastasia looked at her mother, her eyes full of fear and dreadful understanding. But still, she said nothing. Something within her knew better, and the sound of guns cocking just outside proved her right. All heads—all old enough to realize what that sound meant—turned. Nicholas eyes widened, and he peeked out the window, cautiously.

Below stood a man named Yurovsky, flanked by four other men. Trained soldiers, by the way they carried themselves.

Nicholas' shoulders slumped and when he turned, hissing for Olga to take her sisters and brother into the next room, Anastasia knew it was time.

The end was here.

* * *

_Asgard_

* * *

He'd found it. _Yes_, he'd found it. It was risky but if he could pull it off, he would save them. He would save the Romanovas. _All _of them. Moving through his room, he opened another of his many spellbooks and called up the temporary Sight casting his gaze over Anastasia's family. A pool of magic opened up a moving picture of her household and it's goings-on just over the pages of the book.

They were dressing—dressing warmly, in coats and boots—and they had (small, meager) suitcases scattered about. They were _leaving_.

Something was happening. He had to move _now_, or he would not be able to save them. Turning from the flickering picture of movement, he cast the glamour of youth over himself and then turned. He had to move. He had to _leave_. He had a limited window.

He heard it then. The cocking of guns. The slamming of bodies against rotting wooden doors. The cries of fear.

Gunshots.

_No. By the Allfather, no_.

Twisting his eyes, full of horror, to the image floating above his spellbook, he willed the magic out of his body with more force and speed than ever, hurling himself through the hidden pathways between realms, he was unaware that a servant, from the doorway, holding a tray of tea for him, was watching, fear in her eyes.

* * *

_Russia, 1917._

* * *

Fear. Pure. Unadulterated. The gunshots from the other room made the girls want to cry out. Alexei was already crying though they tried to stop him. They were supposed to be hiding. Papa had told them to hide.

They heard the heavy bootfalls just outside the door drawing nearer. And just before the men entered, a flash appeared—light, bright and blue—before it faded and a boy stood before them all. No older than ten, but with a determination on his face that was unrivaled.

Anastasia's eyes widened and she rushed to him, throwing her arms around his neck. "_Lukas_!" she whispered, harshly, relief flooding her.

"Come, _malenkaya_, we haven't much time. I must take you and your family away, quickly."

Anastasia's lip trembled. "Mama...and Papa are..."

"I know. I didn't get here in time," he whispered. "Forgive me."

"It isn't your fault," she replied. "You're here now."

"Yes. Now all of you, come, gather around me," he said, gesturing all of the girls over. Alexei was tucked, safely, in Olga's arms and Lukas moved to conjure the spell he needed to transport them all. But he couldn't. His fingers bubbled with a little magic but then it fizzled away.

The gunshots from before had frightened him. Had caused him to expel too much magic in order to arrive more swiftly than he normally did—to open the pathways wider for easier access, a feat which took a tremendous toll on any magic user, even the strongest. It didn't help that the glamour of youth was still seeping whatever magic was leftover from him.

But if he changed into himself now, he would frighten them. Frighten _her_. They may not trust him.

"No," he whispered, and turned when the door was broken open. The man named Yurovsky stood nearby, and Lukas tucked the women behind him, his arms outspread, blocking them.

"Move, boy," Yurovsky spat, lifting his gun.

"No," Lukas replied, his eyes narrowing.

"_Move_ or you will regret it."

"_No_," Lukas barked.

The next thing he knew, he could hear the shriek of Anastasia from behind her sisters—from behind him. He felt the bullet penetrate his shoulder, burying itself in his flesh, and he remembered how very weak and humanlike the body of a AEsir child was—especially without magic to protect it. Blood began to trickle from the wound, and Lukas fell to his knees, his body shuddering from the pain.

But he looked up at Yurovsky with fierce, warrior eyes. His unwounded arm stayed outstretched, and, even on his knees, he protected them.

Until the butt of the gun came down on his temple, and he fell, with dizzying feebleness to the ground. His eyes rolled around in his head, his vision blurred. His vision faded in and out, growing black and then returning as he watched. Yurovsky lifted the gun, pointing it at Olga and Alexei.

Lukas lifted his hand, trying to call up his magic. _No, _he thought desperately as no magic came.

His vision faded to black. As it faded back in, he found Yurovsky with the gun pointed, now, at Tatiana, as Alexei lay, unmoving on the floor, next to Olga's also unmoving body. Again, he tried to conjure magic, and a little bit bubbled up, but faded immediately. He could feel it returning but he could not utilize it.

His vision faded again. And returned. He turned over, dizzy, weak, and pained. Yurovsky had the gun on Maria, who was sobbing, but did not step away from Anastasia. She was still the older sister. She would protect her.

For a final time, with no avail in his half-unconscious state, he tried to call up his magic. But as the blue sparks jumped, a little higher, this time from his fingers—and Anastasia watched him, desperately, trying to save her family—still he could not get the power working through his body and out of his hands in time.

His vision did not fade this time, but the sound of the gunshot sounded so distant, and the blurred image of the second youngest falling to her knees and then down, onto her side, filled his vision. He knew what that meant.

Anastasia was next. She was the last one left.

And as she stood, her chin high, a sort of determined surrender filling her eyes, Lukas's eyes widened. He pushed himself up with his unwounded arm, and called out, "N-No...!"

Cringing when he felt the heaviness of the assassin's boot on his back, shoving him harshly down into the wooden floor below. He pushed down, firmly, with his leg, holding the boy down, and Lukas cursed himself inwardly for his choice to come down as Lukas and not Loki. He was helpless. Turning blurring green eyes on Anastasia, he offered her an apologetic stare, a gaze that told her he'd done all he could, tried all he had to save them—to save _her_.

Anastasia nodded, and then bit her lip, and for the first time since their friendship began, Lukas saw the truth of her strength in her. The grace and allure of a lady. He saw her future, stretched out before her—saw the enamoring charm and beauty of her as a woman flash behind his eyes.

It was not yet her time to die.

Running on pure instinct alone, he shouted "_No!_" and called to the untapped recesses of his power, which lay dormant deep within him due to his age. The magic welled within him and then exploded out of him in a mad rush of power, causing the gun to shudder as the bullet left the barrel, and throwing the offender against the wall in a shockwave of white-hot magic.

The bullet struck Anastasia with frightening force, in the temple, and sent her careening to the ground, unmoving.

Lukas, smoking with the sudden strength of his own power, rushed to her unmoving form and checked her. He could discern no breath from her, and his eyes filled with glittering tears. He lifted her, carefully, shocked to find he now had his entire Asgardian strength despite the childlike glamour.

He cast his eyes over the other Romanova children, a few of the unshed tears trickling down his face. _I am sorry_, he thought. _If I had been here sooner...I could have saved you all. I...I could have saved _her.

He glanced at Yurovsky, who groaned on the floor, and then hugged Anastasia close to him. He would come to soon, and he knew that his men, who had gone to stand watch out front after the murder of Alexandra and Nicholas, would come rushing in to check what all of the commotion had been. With his newfound strength, he allowed them to fade away, teleporting them to the place they first played together.

The labyrinth at St. Petersburg palace.

Laying the child down on the cold cement, Lukas sat next to her. He touched the slowly bleeding wound on her temple, and, with a subtle spark of power, healed the surface wound. But she did not wake, and he feared the worst was true, after all.

All was quiet. All was still.

Then a great flash of light, and the deep etches of a pattern on the cement a few feet away appeared. Lukas did not have to look up to see who it was. He glanced Anastasia, wondered, silently, if she would ever wake, and then let the glamour slip away.

"Hello, Father," he said, his face to the wall, his tunic and leather armor appearing, slowly, over his form. "Come to take me home, I presume."

"Your mother and brother have been worried. And it is here that I find you," Odin's voice replied. "With a child."

"More than merely a child, Father," whispered the heartbroken prince. "A friend. The best of friends."

"Heimdall saw you tonight. When your magic faltered, the shade you covered yourself with fell," Odin murmured. "And one of the servants saw you leave. Why were so very keen on saving them?"

"Because they meant everything to _her_," Loki replied, his eyes twisting to the child. "But I was too late, Father. I was too late."

"My son, you cannot blame yourself," Odin replied. "You have gravely broken the laws of Yggdrasil by traveling through this hidden pathway of yours—but you did so with the intention of saving lives. Innocent lives. You make yourself and your family proud—you fought with honor."

"I failed."

"Not all battles can be won, Loki. Loss is a part of life. We must learn to accept it—to let it mold us and make us stronger—and move forward."

Loki snorted, and then stood, his eyes turned down toward the child. Fogged with tears—yet devoid of emotion. He was a hurricane of confusion and warring emotions. He wished to be apathetic—yet he wanted to cry. And as he turned and stalked toward Odin, his tall, lean body straight with a counterfeit strength, he glanced at his father, distantly, before they returned, in silence, to Asgard.

The palace was abandoned. And if no one ever found Anastasia's pretty little body, at least she would be allowed to spend the rest of her days in a place that brought them both such deep, lasting joy.

He never saw the very, _very_ shallow movement of her chest.

The wound on her head had been but a graze. Not deadly, but lasting. Oh, how _lasting_ it would be.

But the moment when their friendship had been severed by the bullet of a gun would be the one that changed both of their lives.

_Forever._

* * *

**This chapter had a mind of its own. I had so many other ideas of how I wanted this to go, but this seemed liked the best one, and so I just sort of...ran with it.**

**Some notes: I hope it all makes sense—I know its a little bit of suspended disbelief, thinking Loki wouldn't realize she's still alive, but I assume since he doesn't actually spend much time around humans (and that he's pretty much immortal and fairly young for his species) that mortality would be just a **_**little**_** bit lost on him. Plus, I imagine she's breathing so shallowly that to any naked eye, on such a small body as a child's, it would be impossible to discern that she's breathing at all. Plus the bullet hit her, a graze I know, but he doesn't know the extent a bullet has to go to to kill a human. He just saw three of her siblings go down in a similar way. So yeah.**

"But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." 1 Corinthians 15:57

_Please_ review.


	6. Chapter 5

So, my usual writing schedule is one chapter of _Malenkaya_, one of _Endurance_ in order to keep both updated equally. But since _Endurance_ is wrapping in a few chapters and this one is just getting started, I'm doing the next chapter of this one first. Let's give _Endurance_ a break—let it stew for a bit.

Now, without further ado, _Malenkaya_!

Disclaimer: What would I do if I owned Loki? ...ahm, well yes, anyway, I don't own anything!

* * *

Chapter 5

* * *

_Russia, 1917_

* * *

"What is your name?"

Her head was throbbing. She could feel the dull ache of pain ebbing through her entire forehead, radiating, centrally, from her temple. Her vision was blurred, her body heavy, and her speech slurred—when she spoke at all.

Right now, she didn't. Not because she didn't wish to, but simply because the question was impossible to answer. The woman sitting in front of her was intimidating, to be sure, with her hair pulled into a harsh bun, yanking the skin around her eyes and cheeks back, and giving her a drawn, taut look. Horn-rimmed glasses slid down her nose as she examined the child with a scrutinizing gaze.

Behind her stood a young man dressed in a nice, three-piece suit, a strange grin spread across his face, one hand in his pocket, the other cradling a manilla folder close to his person.

The room she sat in was dark, cold, and empty, save for the table she and the woman were separated by, and the two folding metal chairs that they sat upon, chilling their bones on that cold, October morning.

Again, the woman asked: "What is your name?"

Crystalline tears welled in lost blue eyes and then fell, like rain, down porcelain cheeks as she shook her head. She opened her mouth, and spoke in a slurred, child's voice, "I don't know."

The woman nodded and then stood. She moved to the young man, and she watched as they whispered to one another, but could not hear what they said.

At the other end of the room, the woman—the newly established Red Room's doctor, a woman named Katinka Slovoski—approached her employer, Ivan Petrovitch, and shook her head. "She remembers nothing. It is most definitely the Grand Duchess, but she does not remember it."

Ivan's grin widened. "How very fortunate for us. The last of the Romanovas, here in our midst. In our care. Right under our distinguished leader's nose." He turned his head on his neck, only slightly, glancing at the woman out of the corner of his eyes. "And she's a clean slate. How very, _very _ fortunate."

"Sir, should we not turn her over to Lenin?" Slovoski commented, glancing at the child.

"Oh, _no_. No, no, no." He 'tsk'ed softly, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth before smirking. "No, my dear, we will _use_ her. She is a silver platter, waiting to be filled with all of our ideals and our workings. And just think how much _proof of success_ she will be if Lenin does ever find out who she is—and how we've _conditioned_ her for his purposes. How we've _broken_ her to his will. She will be my greatest success."

"Sir?"

"Of course," Ivan said, turning to leave. "That is only _if_ he finds out. Until that time, we keep this to ourselves. As of this moment, she is not now and will never again be Anastasia Nikolaevna."

"No longer a Romanova?" the woman asked

"Oh, no," he murmured, smirking, and then twisted his head on his neck and looked at the child. "She is still a Romanova. Our very _own_ Romanova." At her curiously furrowed brow, he grinned, handed her the folder in his hand, and turned to walk out, the heavy metal door slamming behind him.

The child looked at the woman as she opened the file and read the contents, before tensing as sharp eyes snapped to her. The doctor knew what was to be done next. Most of the girls who came through here needed to be _unmade_ before they could accomplish Ivan's vision. But this one already had been. Now, it was time to remake her. For his purposes. In _his_ image.

Sitting down at the table yet again, the woman placed the folder down and folded her hands in front of her atop the table's metal surface, and let her eyes bore into the child. Again she asked, her tone different this time—leading:

"Would you like to know your name?"

* * *

Natalia Romanova. That is what they had told her. Her name was Natalia Romanova and she was Ivan Petrovitch's niece. Her parents had been killed in a fire in St. Petersburg, and she had narrowly escaped. She'd hit her head breaking into the old, abandoned palace, looking for a warm place to stay for the night.

That's why she remembered nothing. And that is precisely where Ivan's men had found her.

Something deep within her heart tried to reason with that information—something about it unsettled her. But the more Ivan spoke to her, showing her around his facility, speaking softly, compassionately, to her, the more she came to believe his words as truth.

He paused, suddenly, laying his hand on her shoulder—it was warm, and it unnerved the deepest recesses of her heart, but she shook that feeling away, looking up at the man.

"I will teach you to defend yourself," he said, finally, as he gestured to the other girls—older girls, younger girls, all working their bodies in ways little Natalia had never seen before. But as they moved in strange, new ways, before her eyes, an urge to be strong—to be a _warrior—_to prove something hidden and just out of reach to herself and others welled deep within her.

"Will you truly?" she asked, her voice returning to normal a little. The slurred quality was beginning to diminish.

"I will. You will never again be without the skills to fight back. And you will never again feel the pain of loss. You will never feel any pain _ever_ again."

In that moment, Natalia believed him to be a god—a savior. She had no idea that taking away her pain meant taking away all those things that made her truly human: the natural movement of time within her own little body. And the deep, compassionate workings of her ever-loving heart.

When Slovoski had inferred that little Natalia Romanova had already been unmade, it was a tragic untruth.

To lose ones heart is to be _truly_ unmade.

* * *

_Russia, 1920._

* * *

"Happy birthday, Natalia."

Natalia opened her eyes, the deep, cold blue turning to Ivan as he entered the training facility, smirking. She was on the gymnastics beam, practicing as the other girls watched Ivan move through, and then turned glaring eyes on Natalia. She was always given special treatment—giving Ivan's special attention. They never understood what was so very _unique_ about the child, apart from the fact that she was Ivan's greatest success.

In only three short years, Natalia had surpassed all of her peers physically and mentally. Having already learned two languages apart from Russian, and well on her way to learning a third and fourth, she was also the peak of physical strength. She excelled at gymnastics, rose quickly to the top in martial arts, and mastered ballet in just over a year's time.

But Natalia had always felt the need to be stronger—and she was not about to be the one that Ivan's men harassed. Her first few years, she had been reluctant to perform some of the tasks Ivan wished—to do and say some of the things he wanted her to. To believe some of the words which he told her. She learned quickly, however, that Ivan's word was law inside the Red Room.

After six months and bruises and broken bones, she learned, quickly, that Ivan's words were true. There was no trust between men, and no love lost between even family. The next time she let herself be bruised and broken that way, it was not by the hands of others, but her own—from pushing her body to it's absolute limits. She would _never_ be a victim again.

Ivan's words _were_ truth. He truly _was _giving her the tools she needed to defend herself, absolutely.

Now, on her eleventh birthday, she scoffed at the sound of her _father's _voice trailing through the facility. Another aspect of her training that she excelled at was the disconnect between her mind and heart—she did not participate in the pleasantries of life, and the feeble privileges of the heart that society believed themselves so entitled to.

_Happy _was a frail state of mind. Happiness was a bi-product of _love_. And all of Ivan's good little girls knew that _love _was another absolute weakness.

"_Make no connections_," he would tell them—tell _her_, _"and you will never allow yourself the opportunity for pain."_

In essence, if one never let oneself love, one would never feel the pain of loss. That was how Natalia had understood his words, in any case. And he had let her. Of course, in his own mind, he wasn't trying to protect her heart—he was trying to destroy it. Only one who's heart has been switched off, completely, could be the kind of loyal, unfeeling soldier he needed. He needed someone who was willing to do _anything_ for his sake, without fear that the conscience of the heart would get in the way.

Many of his girls still let this fatal flaw trickle through. But not his Natalia. She was his _prize_. His beautiful blue ribbon. His _greatest_ success.

"I have a present for you," he said.

"That seems unlike you," the child shot back, her voice bubbling with a womanhood that sat just over the horizon. Soon, her body would begin to produce the necessary chemicals to allow such womanhood to develop. Which meant Ivan hadn't much time left.

Ivan smirked, pleased by her reticent attitude. "It isn't a normal kind of present, child. It will make you stronger yet."

Natalia slid her cold, unfeeling gaze to him before bending backwards, pushing herself up on her hands into a perfect handstand on the beam. Ivan watched her with gleaming pride—and the malicious glee of a man who was getting everything he wished for—before she flipped backwards off of the beam and landed on her feet in front of him.

She looked up at him, grabbing a towel from nearby and wiping the sweat from her brow. "I'm listening."

Ivan's grin grew. "Come with me."

* * *

"Dr. Erskin, so good of you to come," Ivan said, shaking the man's hand. Natalia followed in after him, her eyes falling on a man of about thirty-five, his body wrapped in a lab-coat, his face decorated with wired spectacles and a few days worth of stubble.

"I suppose I did not have much of a choice in the matter," replied the man, his voice thick with the lilt of a German. "If it is that you can truly smuggle myself and my research out of Europe. Out of Schmidt's hands."

"Of course. I am a man of my word," Ivan replied. "If it is true that you are a man of yours."

Erskin glanced at Natalia, his eyes full of sorrow. Fear danced behind his eyes. "I've been watching your girls, Mr. Petrovitch. You are sure this is the one you wish to choose?"

"Yes."

"You remember what I told you about Schmidt, do you not?"

"I do."

Erskin nodded and then looked at Natalia again. Finally, he turned his eyes on Petrovitch and murmured, "Give me ten minutes with the child. Then we will begin."

* * *

"What is your name?"

Natalia hated that question. Rolling her eyes, she murmured, "Natalia Romanova."

_Romanova? _Erskin was a little put-off my the name but continued, "And why are you here?"

"For my _birthday present_." The child spat the word like venom from her small, pretty mouth.

Erskin frowned deeply. _I would never forgive myself if this child ended up like Schmidt. _"When I say the word 'courage', what is your first thought?"

"Fearless."

"Compassion?"

"Weakness."

"Strength?"

"Power."

"Love?"

"Lukas."

The word spilled from Natalia's mouth before she even had time to stop it and her eyes widened. Her brow furrowed and Erskin raised an eyebrow at her, murmuring, "What is that?"

"A name," she said, again speaking out of instinct.

"Whose?"

Natalia tried to call up a face but it caused only deep pain in her head, and in her heart and instead she scoffed. "I don't know. And I don't care. I meant to say childish. Love is _childish_."

Erskin looked down at the notes he had been carefully making, and he smiled a little. _There is still hope in your heart, child. And I know this world you are trapped in is not of your own making. I pray the ideals buried deeply in your heart by this cruel place will be the ones magnified—instead of the other._

The name was proof. She still had love in her heart—and the quickness of her other answers gave Erskin reason to believe they were trained answers—that in the deepest recesses of her heart, they were not what she really believed. Nodding, he stood. "Very well. We may proceed."

"Well?" Ivan asked upon returning. Erskin gave a curt nod and then gestured toward the cold, metal operating table that had been crudely set up in the middle of the empty room. Natalia looked at the table, and a small semblance of fear welled in her heart. She squashed it, immediately.

Erskin led the child to the table and watched as she hopped, easily, up onto the tall surface. Now at eye level with her, he carefully connected the singular medical machine settled next to it up to her. With a cautious understanding, and a father's touch, he placed each monitor plunger on her, starting with her head, arms, legs and finally, carefully, over her heart.

Natalia was not used to being handled so gently and her brow furrowed at him, as he finished his work. He turned to Ivan, picking up a single tube of a viscous blue liquid. "This is the only completed version of the formula in existence. The one Schmidt took was incomplete."

"I'm indebted to you, Dr. Erskin," Ivan said with a tight smile. "That you would give my little Natalia such a present as this."

"Well,:" Erskin said, "I must retreat somewhere safe to continue my work." _It is merely a means to an end. And maybe someday, child, you will prove yourself worthy of the gift I give you. _

"Now, Natalia, lay back," Erskin said to her, softly, smiling gently at her, before he leaned in and whispered, "And don't lose sight of who you are—who you _truly_ are—ever."

As he connected the tube to a syringe, and pressed the needle, carefully, into her arm, he whispered, "Do not forgot let your heart forget Lukas."

Natalia's eyes widened as a swift flash of green eyes entered her mind, and her heart beat with something that had long since been made unfamiliar to her—the twist and tug of long-buried love. Feeling the course of the formula swimming through her, she tried to push the feelings down, to ignore the quick and quiet memory of eyes unfamiliar to her, but it would not vanish. And as her small body convulsed on the table, and she began to foam at the mouth, her heart could only cry out to one person.

One stranger.

_Lukas_!

And the answer was a voice, in the distant caverns of her mind—a voice that was hollow and hard to recognize—calling back, softly, to her. Calling only one, simple Russian word.

_Malenkaya._

Ivan was shouting—calling Erskin all kinds of names in Russian that any normal child would never be allowed to repeat. Erskin, meanwhile, was trying to stabilize the girl, his eyes focused on the wild beat of her heart on the monitor.

Finally, Natalia went still. Completely.

"What have you _done_?" Ivan snapped, as he pushed past the man and shook Natalia. She lay deathly still. Unmoving. Unflinching.

"I told you, Petrovitch," Erskin said, panting from the excursion of trying to calm a seizing child. "The formula magnifies not just the physical—but the inside. I told you to choose carefully. You may have destroyed her simply by allowing her to become so devoid of everything."

"_Shut up_! She is _perfect_," Ivan bit back, and looked down at the girl. "You _told_ me the dose used on Schmidt was unfinished!"

"It was," Erskin said, simply, and when Natalia moved, just a fraction, coughing and coming too with a hard gasp, Erskin closed his eyes, filling with relief. He pushed past Ivan and helped the child sit up, examining her, carefully, from head to toe, checking each of her vitals with scrutinizing precision.

"How do you feel, Natalia?" he asked.

Natalia turned a hard glare on Erskin, and then offered Ivan a victorious smirk. "_Stronger_."

Erskin's heart sank, but it seemed, apart from the convulsion, no other adverse affects had made themselves present. For that, Erskin was grateful. For that, Erskin was _hopeful._

_There's hope for you yet, Natalia Romanova. The question is—will you seize it? _

Natalia hopped down from the table and approached her father—father and mentor. "I am ready to continue my training."

"Actually, you should rest for-" Erskin was cut off by Ivan's grin stretching wide, as he placed his hands on Natalia's shoulders and squeezed.

"We will put you back to work _immediately_, then! You will be the best of us, Natalia. _The best_," he said, and turned to walk out, pausing only briefly to turn and look at Erskin. "The preparations for your departure are being put into effect as we speak." His eyes jolted to Natalia. "Come, Natalia."

Natalia followed him, but she could not keep her eyes from turning to glance at Erskin with a softness she had not let flitter into her eyes in years.

_Who is Lukas? _She wanted to ask. Did he even know?

But more importantly...

_Who...is _malenkaya?

* * *

_Russia, 1937._

* * *

Stalin had seized power in 1927, and had nearly destroyed every inner-working of the Soviet Union that Lenin (and by extension Trotsky) had built. However, despite his much more dictatorial rulership, there were still a few men of Lenin's he trusted, exclusively.

Like Yuri Drakov.

He had been one of Lenin's most trusted comrades. He was often the one who offered Lenin advice in times of strife, and his advice usually met with positive results. He had spoken against Ivan Petrovitch's Department X, at first, but with no proof to go upon, he as unable to sway Lenin away from Ivan's twisted idealism. Upon meeting his wife, he had settled down, started a family and tried to let go of some of his responsibility to the Union. His wife had a hard time bearing children and so he focused much of his time and energy on her. And when little Katarina Drakov was born, they had given her the world.

Katarina was sixteen when her father learned what Department X truly did. Sixteen and beautiful, when Yuri found out about the Red Room—about the children. There had been reports for years now of children—particularly females—disappearing from orphanages around the country. It was true, not many cared what happened to the life of a parentless child. Most assumed they died from exposure or ran away from the poor conditions of the halfway houses.

It was the winter of 1940 when Drakov learned the truth.

And as letters began to pour into Ivan's office from him—threatening to expose him to Stalin, who still trusted his judgement as Lenin had, if he did not shut down his "monstrous" facility—the man seethed, and realized that Yuri Drakov was going to be more of a threat to him than he initially realized.

So, in his desperation and pride for his greatest creation, his beautiful, brilliant success, he called in the best. _His_ best.

It was almost a month of successive letters later that Natalia Romanova—the _Black Widow _as she'd come to be known as because her most _powerful_ asset was her seductive quality and intensely ethereal beauty—stood across Ivan's desk, waiting.

"I have a job for you," he said, nursing a tumbler of vodka, his eyes averted from her.

"I assumed," she replied, her long crimson curls pulled into a high ponytail, a stealth bodysuit tucked under the thick fur coat she wore, trying to keep the freezing chill of the harsh Russian winter away. She hated the cold. _Hated_ it.

Without turning his swivel chair to face her, he pushed a photograph toward her, his lips wrapped around the edge of his glass, sucking the burning liquid into his mouth, his body radiating with irritation—and anger.

Natalia stepped forward, picking up the picture and studying it. "Who is this?"

"That," he said, finishing his drink and slamming the cup down on his desk. Still, he did not face her, "is Katarina Drakov. She'll be seventeen tomorrow."

Natalia was silent. Her eyes were focused—stern, devoid of emotion. She kept her heart hard, and her mind clear.

"I don't want her to reach seventeen," Ivan said, and finally turned his eyes on her. "I want you send Yuri Drakov a message—help him to see _reason. _If he wishes to try and deprive me of _my _girls, then I will deprive him of _his_. Am I making myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tonight, my _Black Widow_," he said in smooth Russian. "_Tonight_."

Natalia nodded, and then turned, swiftly, and left.

"And Natalia."

She turned to look at him.

"You know what will happen if you _fail me_."

"Don't worry. _You _know," she began, "I never fail."

* * *

Katarina Drakov was alone in her room when Natalia swung herself through the window. It was an easy enough task to disengage the flimsy locks and open the glass pane, silently.

Moving through the room toward the bed, Natalia removed a pistol from her thigh-holster and twisted a silencer onto it. She paused, in front of the bed, and pointed the gun, steadily, at the girl.

The young woman lay there, silent, sleeping soundly, without a care in the world. She would never have known what was coming, except that the urge for water struck her and her eyes cracked open. Upon seeing her assailant hovering above her, she went to scream, but Natalia pulled her from the bed, swiftly, covering her mouth with her hand, and pushing her lips right up against the girl's ear.

"Scream and I will not only kill you but your entire family and house staff," she hissed, and the girl tensed, tears filling her eyes. Natalia spun her out and away from her, standing face to face with the young woman now, the gun pointed with fervent necessity.

But as Natalia stood, watching a sixteen year old girl dressed only in the frills of a young woman's nightgown, her hair down, staring down the barrel of a gun, something familiar struck her. Something sad and terrifying, and her hand shook, suddenly, lowering just a little bit.

Her eyes widened as the clawing scrape of memories tried to punch through to her conscious mind.

Then she heard Ivan's voice ring out like a foreboding warning bell in her mind: _You know what will happen if you _fail_ me. _

Raising her gun again, she sucked in a hard breath, steadying her shaking hand, and placing her finger over the trigger.

However, as she squeezed the offending piece of plastic, she did something she had never done with another target, and would never do again:

"I'm sorry."

The bullet whizzed out of the gun, burying itself directly in the girl's heart, and she fell, like a sack, to the floor. Natalia lowered her gun, her lips pressed together hard as she pushed the pistol back into its holster and left, quietly, quickly, the way she came.

* * *

_Russia_

* * *

In 1941, the Soviet Union entered the second World War, and Natalia spent most of her time doing hits on Allied leadership. By this point, she had stopped aging and could therefore keep herself in peak condition for any fight, any mission. She could gather intel, perform hits, and fight, one on one, without issue. She was the perfect spy. The perfect assassin. The perfect _soldier_.

Almost. Her hesitation during the hit on Drakov's daughter still startled her, sometimes. After Katarina Drakov, she had to all but retrain herself to feel nothing at the other end of a kill. To understand it was a means to an end. To follow _orders_ without question.

During war, it was easy. Easy to kill and feel nothing. It felt _right_. Like one was protecting something sacred—something _worthwhile._

But it became harder as the years rolled on—as the decades passed. She never aged, but her mind and heart began to feel the toll of her lifestyle—the lies, the deceptions. She could feel the weight of each piece of blackmailing evidence she'd successfully smuggled to Ivan, each child she'd ever kidnapped to replenish the Red Room's recruits, and each life she'd ever taken.

But she kept going. Such thoughts and feelings were _weak_. And she _knew_ that. And everytime she felt that weight on her heart, she trained _harder_. She had to release herself from being weak. She had to remove the fear. She obviously needed to be _stronger_.

For years, that's what she told herself. For decades.

Then, Natalia who served the Red Room, for years even after Ivan's death—and his son's—discovered the truth.

In early 2000, the Red Room and Department X were making the transfer into new hands—the hands of Ivan's grandson, Dmitri, and his wife, Helena—Natalia found something out. Something that made her question Ivan and all of his principles.

As she was rifling through some of the papers in his desk drawer, looking for some documents for Dmitri to sign, she paused, as a secret compartment popped up at the touch of her fingers—so old and used that the wood of the false bottom failed, easily. She peeled off the false bottom the rest of the way and furrowed her brow at the pile of thinly folded letters that lay underneath.

She pulled them out, one by one, and opened them, carefully, one by one. She wasn't sure what had compelled her to do it, but she was intrigued. Each was a letter from someone _to _Ivan. Most of them were people from other countries, thanking him for the services of his Red Room operatives.

But as he peeled open the last one, she would soon regret her choice.

The first thing that caught her eye was the named signed at the bottom.

_Johann Schmidt_

Memories from childhood flooded her mind, Memories of Ivan speaking to a doctor—a man named Erskin—about a man named Schmidt.

Yes.

She remembered Erskin. His voice was so soft and caring, the accent lilted German. He had handled her kindly when she'd received the injections that had paused her body's aging process. He had told her...to never give up on who she was. To never forget—

"Lukas," she whispered to herself, her heart shuddering in her chest. She also remembered that Ivan had made a bargain with this man—a bargain in exchange for Natalia's perpetual immortality.

She had always believed Ivan's word to be law. But the letter had her attention now and as she read through it, her eyes widened.

_-thank you, Mr. Petrovitch-_

_-we found Dr. Erskin easily based on your intel-_

_-Erskin is dead-_

Dead. Dead because of Ivan.

Even though Ivan had _sworn_ to smuggle this man away from Schmidt—away to safety.

_You know better_, her mind argued. _The only good thing Petrovitch ever taught you was to question everything. You_ know_ Ivan values information for how much power it can gain him. How much control. You've _always_ known that_.

Natalia shook her head, trying to eradicate the thoughts. Ivan had saved her—protected her—made her strong! Ivan had brought her up as his very own, handed her new life and new purpose. Ivan had-

_Manipulated. Blackmailed. Twisted._

But never killed.

_No._ The killing had always been her job. Hers or someone else's.

_He's setting you up to take the fall, _malenkaya_._

Her mind's voice, she realized, was not her own. It was another voice. The voice of a child.

_Lukas._

That night, she ran. And, as her past chased her down, desperate to catch her, she vowed she would never look back.

* * *

_Belarus, 2000._

"You sure about this, sir?"

Clint Barton was twenty-two years old and a reformed criminal. He had committed crimes on a scale from small beans to large time, and had been deemed armed and dangerous on numerous occasions. Of course, _armed_ was up for debate in an age of guns and bullets.

He was a little more..._primitive_ than that. He preferred the twang of a bow string—the snap of an arrow as it left the bow. He loved letting his eyes paint a picture with his bow and arrow. He was _good_ at that—_unnaturally_ good.

Things were different now. After he'd been detained by the U.S. Government for some smuggling charge, and handed over to some special ops group because of his _insane_ marksmanship, he had been given a choice. _Join us_, they'd said, _or we hand you right into a warden's hands._

He made the choice for freedom. Who wouldn't?

And so, he became a steadfast, _permanent_ agent of The Strategic Homeland Intervention and Enforcement Division of the government. SHIELD.

And right now, he was on a mission.

"_You questioning me, Barton?" _The voice of his boss—Nick Fury

"No, sir. Just verifying."

"_You close_?"

"Think so. Seen her exit and enter twice now. Hair covered, eyes covered, but general body type and posture as well as facial structure definitely suggest it's her."

"_Then you don't hesitate, Barton. You take her out. We've been hunting the Black Widow for over a year. It's time to end this."_

"Yes, sir," Clint said into his com, but in his heart, something seemed off. Fury was right. It _had _been over a year, and the Widow had always eluded them. _Always_. She was smart, with a physical and mental agility Clint had rarely come up against in the past—either in crime or as an agent. So why, _now_, was she suddenly letting herself be seen so easily?

Why _now_ was she suddenly so easy to catch?

_There's more to this._ Clint swung down from his perch high atop a Belarus church spire, and down into the window just below. When he was sure the coast was clear, he then took a running start and jumped into a window across the alley just a few feet below, finding himself on the second floor of the little inn that he was almost positive the Widow was staying in.

Readying his bow and arrow, he left the empty room, pressing his body to the threshold of the door and checking for any signs of movement in the hallway before he stepped out. Utilizing his insanely tuned eyes to his advantage, he checked the floor and walls for any signs that might direct him to her room, and was pleased when, at the end of the hall, he found one of the old wooden doors with a single red curl clinging to the splintered wood.

He smirked. _Gotcha_.

Kicking the door open, he pointed his bow and arrow at the ready.

The woman did not turn, but by the way she sat up straight and tall, he was sure she knew he was there. Finally, her head twisted, and Clint caught the first glimpse of her beautiful, porcelain face.

"So," spoke the woman's profile, in English, her Russian accent thick, "you've finally found me."

"Natalia Romanova, aka Black Widow. Master assassin and spy extraordinaire," Clint replied. "Under the employ of Ivan Petrovitch and his son Nikolai after him. A product of the _Red Room_."

"You've got a lot of information on me," she replied, standing, facing toward him finally. His eyes scanned her, quickly, and immediately he realized she was unarmed. He did not, however, lower his bow.

"It's my job," Clint replied, and pulled the bow-string tight.

"Come to kill me?"

"That's the plan."

Natalia nodded and bowed her head, her long red curls falling over the ivory pale skin of her porcelain sculpted face. She spread her arms wide. "Then, do it." _I deserve it. Ivan Petrovitch lied to me for decades. And I let him. I was a fool._

Clint swallowed, hard, pressed his thumb to his lip to steady the bow—to aim—and took a deep, calming breath. But as he stared at her, standing, outspread—in a position of _complete _surrender—he couldn't bring himself to do it. Something within him told him otherwise.

_You got your second chance, Clint Barton. Time to pay it forward_.

With a shaky, uncertain breath, he lowered the bow, and only one word spilled from his lips after that:

"No."

* * *

"Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good." Romans 12:21

_Please_ review.


	7. Chapter 6

It's hard to decide which chapter to write. At the same time, I have more ideas for this one right now than _Endurance_. Plus someone flipped a coin.

This won.

So...here's _Malenkaya_!

Dislciamer: Do not own anything.

* * *

Chapter 6

* * *

_12 years later – Russia_

* * *

The hand came down across her face like a hammer to a nail—hard and fast, snapping her neck around like a rubber band.

"This is not how I wanted this evening to go," the man said in Russian, pacing back and forth in front of her, his hands tucked deep into his trouser pockets.

Natasha Romanoff—a more casual form of her true name (and yet different enough to be new)—watched with uninterested eyes. She was only here to collect information for Fury about the sudden influx of arms shipments that some of SHIELD's enemies were receiving en masse.

So far, things were going _exactly_ as planned.

Which was interesting to say considering she was tied, firmly, to a chair, draped in a little black dress and surrounded by the arms dealer and his henchmen. But Natasha was good at her work—she excelled at trickery and lies. At manipulation. It was all she'd ever known. And though sometimes, she wished she could escape it, she was glad to know that at least now she was using her skill set for good—she believed. She hoped.

Twisting her head back around to look at man before her—an older gentleman, and the alleged leader of the arms trade being investigated—Natasha took a few deep breaths, murmuring back, her Russian smooth, "I know how you wanted this evening to go. Believe me..._this_ is better."

The man smirked, but his eyes told a story of insult. He asked her about where her allegiances lie, and inwardly, she was laughing at how wrong he was. However...

_Lermentov. Fury was convinced it was General Solohob. I had better confirm. _

Before she could even open her mouth though, she felt the weight of her body—and the chair—being disengaged from the floor as one of the interrogator's men tipped her backward—backward over a gaping hole in the floor that fell two stories down.

She was vaguely aware of the man still speaking, mentioning Lermentov's involvement in moving their cargo. Now was her best chance to gather the _real_ intel they would need.

Calling up a look of fear as she was dangled over the abyss of broken wood and floor, she murmured, "I thought General Solohob was in charge of the export business." She felt her chair being put, slowly, to rights.

The interrogator smirked, and shook his head. "Solohob? A bagman, a front." He scoffed at her. "Your outdated information betrays you!"

_And your need to be right betrays you_, her mind replied, as the man continued to speak, his deeply wrinkled face stretched wide with a tight-lipped grin.

"The famous Black Widow," he said, his tone condescending and dull, "and she turns out to be simply another pretty face."

Her expression showed no signs of hurt or distress. Allowing an gaze of mocking derision onto her face, she deadpanned, "You really think I'm pretty?"

The man clearly didn't appreciate her sarcasm, or the injurious jibe at what was clearly meant to be an insult. Turning with a forced smirk, he approached a small metal table, laid out with odd looking tools. His henchman grabbed Natasha by the crown of her head, and the point of her chin, forcing her pretty, plump lips open.

The interrogator was speaking again. He was on about Lermentov and his involvement in moving their cargo. He was idly fiddling with each of the tools on the table, trying to decide on the best one to utilize. He was telling her to inform Lermentov that their ties had been severed.

Until he decided on his weapon of choice.

Then, the first words of English since the conversation began bubbled out of his lips: "Well...you may have to write it down."

A cell phone broke the tension.

Natasha was _a little_ amused to find anyone who would leave their cell phone on during an interrogation. She didn't even carry her normal phone with her when she was on a job. It was a distraction, but more than that, it was a _danger_. A surefire way to blow one's cover. Glancing at the interrogator's minion when he answered the phone, she was a little surprised when he noted the call was for her. However, she never let any emotion she felt show on her face—she had been trained better, and she couldn't let herself be compromised.

She watched, carefully, as the interrogator spoke on the phone, and furrowed her brow a little when he he abruptly stopped speaking. Unlike herself, his expression did change with each new emotion and she could tell something about the call had spooked him just before he tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder.

"_We need you to come in._" It was Coulson's voice. One of Fury's second-in-commands. His tone was tight—it sounded urgent. But she had previous obligations that needed to be dealt with and she wasn't about to stop now.

"Are you kidding? I'm working," she replied, her voice completely devoid of accent (which had been lost over the years) and her entire demeanor changing from one of the shuddering victim she had been playing to the strong, confident spy she'd been from the beginning.

"_This takes precedence._"

Natasha had the strongest urge to sigh, verbally, but settled to argue instead: "I'm in the middle of an interrogation. This moron is giving me _everything_."

The interrogator—or rather, interrogatee, as it were—furrowed his brow, a sheepish expression falling over the folds of his wrinkled face. "I not...give...everything."

Natasha would've snorted if she had been anyone else, but instead offered him a raised eyebrow and a look of incredulous condescension.

Turning her attention back to the phone, Natasha said, "Look, you can't pull me out of this right-"

"_Tasha...Barton's been compromised_."

That's when things changed. In a matter of seconds, an entirety of twelve years flashed behind her eyes, starting with a moment when a broken women in a cheap, old inn in Belarus had been confronted by the stern blue eyes of a determined agent, and the business end of his bow-and-arrow.

Swallowing hard, she glanced at the men surrounding her, counting exactly how many there were and what it would take to extract herself from this situation unharmed. Once a plan was thoughtfully circulating in her mind, she turned her attention, absently, back to the phone.

"Let me put you on hold."

The interrogator's hand moved toward her, and those few small seconds seemed like hours, before his fingers finally wrapped around the phone. Locking her blue eyes with his, she swung her leg out, her heel connecting, firmly, with his shin before swinging her head forward, her forehead colliding with his.

As he backward, his henchman rushed her, but even tied to the chair, she was no pushover. She swung the chair around on one, using the leverage of the wooden object to knock him over, before tumbling, chair and all, over to the second. Using the legs of the chair, she dug the wood deep into the second man's feet, swinging her head back into his nose with a satisfying snap.

With her hands out of commission, her legs swung around, tripping and colliding with any one of the men who rushed her, keeping them at bay as she tried to deduce how to free herself from her confines. Finally, as she watched the men struggle on the floor to stand up, she leaped forward, pushing all of her weight off the back of one of the men and flipped herself over. Twisting her body just so, she allowed herself to land, squarely, on her back (and on an assailant), causing the chair to explode into pieces and her arms to break free.

She was grabbed from behind immediately, but she twisted his arm around, swinging a chair leg she was holding into his face and leaped, pushing her bare feet against his chest and knocking him down as her back hit the hard floor beneath. Then, using all of the weight in her upper body, she swung herself, without hands, off of the floor and back onto her feet.

By then, the last assailant had risen again, and so, using all of her speed and agility, she rushed him, leaped and wrapped the entirety of her thighs around his neck, using the muscled limbs to swing him down to the floor beneath with as much force as possible. Then, her head snapped to the side, and upon seeing the interrogator writhing on the floor, she approached him. She had to make sure he wouldn't come looking for her right away. Finding a chain nearby, she wrapped the thick metal around his leg and then swung him down over the gaping hole that he had just previously been tipping her over.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she picked up the fallen cell phone and her heels and murmured, "Where is Barton now?"

"_We don't know_."

"But he's alive?"

"_We think so._"

And as Coulson explained their next plan of action, she let her mind race with all of the horrible, unjust things that her best friend could be going through right now, and something about that made her cringe internally—a part, deep within her, that feared more than anything else the loss of a loved one.

The loss of a best friend.

It was unexplainable and foreign, but yet somehow so true to who she was in a way she couldn't understand. And as she spoke worried words of Russian into the phone, she somehow knew what was next to come would not be easy or pleasant.

Whatever was coming next was going to change things. She just _knew _it.

* * *

_Unknown Location, Present Day_

* * *

He'd been through so much.

Looking back on it now, maybe he hadn't made the proper choices. But all of the choices he'd made had been _necessary_. Sometimes, however, he wondered if she would approve of the man he'd become. Sometimes, however, he tried to imagine what she might look like as a woman. How she might look at _him_.

It didn't matter now. She was dead, and he...he was what he was and there was no stopping it now.

Setting his spear down on the floor, Loki, exiled Prince of Asgard and God of Mischief, lowered himself down next to it, crossing his legs like a child sitting on a classroom floor might, and closing his eyes. Immediately, images of the last few decades were pulled to his mind, and despite how he tried to forget them, he simple couldn't.

The first memory he always saw was her face, pale as snow, cold as ice, unmoving, unsmiling, dead.

_Anastasia_.

And from there, he had found comfort in the strength of his family—in how proud they were of him for his selfless acts. He had found closeness with Thor, and his friends. He had, for once, finally, been _included_. But inclusion did not mean equality, and still, like with so many other things, he fell into Thor's hulking shadow. Looked over by Odin. Looked over by _Asgard_.

Things only got worse from there.

After decades of thinking about that night, about Anastasia, and of hearing how much of a hero he _could_ have been—those were always their words; always—the word of his escapades on Midgard died down, and Thor became the golden son again. And as much as Loki had truly loved his brother, sometimes he _hated_ how Thor could do no wrong.

_So_, he'd decided, _I'll _make_ him do wrong_.

On the day that was to be Thor's coronation, Loki broke his promise to his father. After Anastasia, he had promised his father he would _never _go looking for hidden pathways between the realms again. But he had. And with those, he called the Jotuns into Asgard. At first it had only been a bit of fun. But when he realized how furious Thor became—how much like a child—he concocted a plan.

And Thor complied. He leaped on the opportunity to get even with the Frost Giants

He had only meant to shame Thor. To knock him down a few pegs. But Odin's anger burned, and he banished Thor. And he realized he never should have played such a trick.

For so many more reasons than simply Thor's banishment

Forcing Thor to enter Jotunheim had been the single greatest mistake of his life. It had led to a truth about himself he had never wished to know—the truth about why he was never fully accepted by his father or his people.

Because they _weren't_ his people.

And suddenly, the guilt he felt for Thor's exile melted into an unquenchable anger and jealousy. Thor was _no brother_ of his, and these people were not his. And in his rage, he claimed the throne of Asgard for himself. He was going to _prove_ to Odin that he was better than the Jotun scum the Allfather believed him to be. He was going to _destroy_ Jotunheim and be a hero to Asgard.

A good king—the _rightful_ king.

Good intentions, he believed. Until Thor returned. And than, somehow, whatever was good in him turned bitter. A sour anger crackled in his heart.

He threatened the woman Thor loved. He threatened Midgard.

Midgard, which he had once, himself, loved.

And Anastasia's voice, so small and sweet, played in his head like a sad record: _Don't say these things, Lukas. Don't do these things. You are loved. Your brother loves you. _I_ love you._

_It doesn't matter_, his head would reply, even as his heart cried out for her. _You're dead_.

And so he fought Thor. He threatened Thor. He hurt his brother so deeply in his heart—in both of their hearts, if he was completely honest with himself—that when Thor tried to save him from his falling from the decimated and destroyed remnants of the Bifrost, Loki saw only the pain of his own failing. He did not compute how desperately Thor wanted to pull him up. He only saw Thor's hammer coming down like thunder against the Bifrost. He saw only Thor's determination against everything Loki stood for. To Loki, who clung so tightly to his spear, Thor was not trying to pull him up. Thor was the one who'd led him to dangling over this abyss.

And when he let go, and the tiniest sting of sorrow bubbled up in his heart at Thor's cry of no, the rest of him truly believed it was Thor who had caused the fall. _His_ fall. In every meaning of the word.

He was no son of Asgard. He was no brother of Thor.

He was a the fallen remnant of a Jotun prince—a broken remnant of what he once was. An angry, bitter, guilt-ridden fragment of the grandeur he once embraced.

_That_ was when The Other found him.

* * *

_Quinjet_

* * *

"Dr. Banner, you can relax," Natasha murmured, sitting across from the fidgeting doctor on a Quinjet that was, currently, flying over the ocean toward SHIELD headquarters. It had taken some doing to get the cautious scientist-turned-gamma-monster to agree to assist in their finding the Tesseract—an powerful, unexplainably ethereal object with energy to sustain the wasteful lifestyles of their world without yield. Natasha believed the object a blessing and a curse.

She had always thought it dangerous. She had hated that Clint had been it's guardian. His eyes were the best, she knew, but if what Coulson had told her was true, he had been unprepared for the monster that had walked through the portal it had created—undertrained. He had never stood a chance.

Bruce Banner watched her, and despite his fidgeting nature, he read her well. He could tell she was troubled, and she hadn't told him much, but whatever troubled her was thickly rooted and deeply personal. Letting himself relax a little, he asked, "Are you okay?"

Natasha couldn't help but laugh a little. "That's an odd question coming from you."

Bruce offered a small laugh of his own. "I guess it is. Something's bothering you though."

Natasha only shrugged, crossing her arms tightly over her chest—a movement that screamed defensive body language—as she turned her face from him. The shot curls of red she sported bounced against her cheek and she blinked, her expression drifting far away. "It's complicated."

Bruce smiled a little sadly at her. "It always is."

Natasha glanced at him. How could she tell him about Barton? And not that he was a prisoner to some madman, but something much deeper than that. That the thought of losing her best friend scared her worse than anything else—that the idea of _death_ upon anyone she cared about made her shudder with unexplainable terror. As if on _instinct_. But she could never understand why—Ivan had always taught her to expel fear. And even though the fear was very real whenever the ideas appeared, she had gotten very good at hiding it—at ignoring it—at moving forward. But it was still there, moreso than any other emotion in any other situation. _Ever_.

It was as if she'd lost something—or someone—in the past. But as far as she could ever remember, she hadn't. It was true, her memories had been toyed with. There was a time, a moment, when Ivan had destroyed the persona of Natalia Romanova for his own gain—a time when a ballerina-turned-assassin with a falsified name had been forced into her brain, and Natalia Romanova had been removed.

Sometimes, though, late at night, in the deepest recesses of her dreams, she believed that Natalia Romanova was falsified as well. And in those moments, when she woke in a cold sweat, terrified, she wondered, if that were true, who she really _was_ then.

She was brought from her thoughts, suddenly, by the deep, jostling shudder of the Quinjet landing at SHIELD Headquarters. She stood and picked up the tan leather jacket that sat in the seat next to her, shrugging it onto her shoulders over the red tank-top she wore. As the hatch opened, she exited the craft with Bruce, and immediately, she was called over by another agent. She offered that Bruce have a look around, as she moved away, her eyes focusing on the second Quinjet making its descent.

_Captain America._

Things were about to get interesting.

* * *

_Unknown Location_

* * *

"Stuttgart, Germany," mumbled Loki as he stared, comtemplatively, into the screen that Hawkeye had handed him. Handing the pad back to Clint Barton, he nodded and turned to look at the group of SHIELD enemies the archer had collected for him.

"Very well," he murmured. "I'll be the diversion."

"Sir?" Barton asked. "What about SHIELD? What if they catch you?"

"Don't worry," Loki replied, smirking as he picking up his spear.

"But, sir-"

Loki turned, harshly, his spear pointed at Barton's neck, his eyes narrowed with ferocity. "You dare to question me? Have you not learned by now, Barton, my word is law? If I am to be your future king, you will do as I say when I say it. You fret too much about the goings-on of mortals. If and when SHIELD catches me, it will be because I allow it, not because they actually have the power to do so."

The veins in Barton's temples throbbed—it was obvious he was fighting the possession of the Tesseract's power—and losing. He nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Ready your men, Barton. We're traveling to Stuttgart within the hour." With that, Loki turned and walked away, leaving Barton to glare after him, his heart begging his head to wake up.

* * *

_SHIELD Helicarrier_

* * *

"Made a bet with Fury, huh?"

Steve Rogers twisted his head on his neck, his eyes seeking the person speaking to him. Natasha came up behind him, having just returned from bringing Bruce to his lab. She was smirking. She had just seen the exchange between Fury and the illustrious Captain America, and she wondered what it was for.

The famous "first" superhero smiled and shook his head. "Kind of, I guess. He was just right about something. This—this Helicarrier. It's..."

"Nifty?" Natasha offered a little mockingly, before she grinned and stepped down onto the lower bridge, her fingers moving through pictures of Clint for the second time since they'd entered the ship. As if she were going to find something new—as if she were going to find out _why_.

Coulson approached Steve, and the two began to exchange words. Natasha watched them out of the corner of her eyes, and smiled a little when she heard Coulson murmur, "-if it's not too much trouble."

And Steve was just so..._genuine_.

Another computer terminal beeped across the bridge, and all eyes turned to it. The agent working the terminal began to spout percentages. Apparently, the face-trace had been successful. They'd found their culprit.

Clint's assailant.

It was the agent's words after the successful trace, however, that unnerved and worried Natasha.

"He's not exactly hiding."

_Then, what is he doing? _She wondered. Her training had taught her that when one as intelligent as this man made himself seem knew how to hide when they wanted to hide—and be found when they wanted to be found. And something seemed _very_ suspicious about a man who'd veritably declared war on SHIELD to suddenly let himself be so easily traced by them.

Fury's voice broke her from these thoughts. Deep and commanding, it floated across the bridge:

"Captain." It resounded, echoing across the ship. Steve turned to look at him, his brow furrowed.

"You're up," Fury finished.

* * *

_Asgard_

* * *

"It's not possible. It can't be true!" Frigga's voice was strained and tight. Her face was pulled into an expression of distress and sorrow—a confused, incredulous mask of pain that Thor could not bear to see on his mother's face.

"It is," Thor replied, keeping his voice as steady and gentle as possible. "Heimdall felt his magic radiate. He's on Midgard. He's _alive_."

The throne room was silent—the golds and silvers glittered like gleaming twilight on the walls. However, despite the glitter of light and beauty, a darkness fell over the three inhabitants of the room. Frigga turned desperate eyes on her husband, who had his eye trained, carefully, on Thor. Standing, finally, from his throne, spear in hand, he approached Thor. "There is more. I see it on your face. What of your brother, Thor? What of Loki?"

"Father," Thor murmured, "Heimdall has turned his Sight fully to Loki now. What he sees is not..."

He swallowed hard around the swollen lump in his throat. He willed himself not to cry. "...Father, Loki acts against the interests of the realms. He has declared war on Midgard."

A choked sob escaped Frigga's lips and she pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to calm her shuddering heart in her chest, and the warm tears that filled her eyes.

Odin frowned, and there was a sense of sorrow that fell over his face, briefly, before a stern determination filled him again. With a nod, he replied, "Then you, as future King of Asgard, as a man who has grown into the leader I always knew you could and _would_ be, have a duty to protect one of the realms under your leadership."

"There is one more thing, Father."

Odin's eyebrow raised in question.

"He has the Tesseract."

Odin's heart shuddered in his chest—a strange fear washed over him for a moment, before it faded. The Tesseract was powerful, and dangerous. In the wrong hands, it could break down the branches of Yggdrasil in a matter of moments. Pull apart the very fabric of the universe. He had hidden it on Midgard when he was a much younger man—a foolhardy man. But he should have known it would fall into foolish hands sooner or later.

It was time to bring it home. Before things got any worse.

"Then, you're mission had just become more dire, my son."

Thor set his jaw, hard. "Yes, Father."

"If you are ready—I can send you to Midgard."

There was a pregnant silence and then:

"I am ready."

* * *

"Now may the God of patience and comfort grant you to be like-minded toward one another according to Christ Jesus." Romans 15:5

_Please_ review.


	8. Chapter 7

I've kind of got writer's block for _Endurance_. But this one has ideas that are flowing like honey from a hive. So, there you go!

Here's _Malenkaya_. (Warning: Some words and lines from the movie may be changed in order to fit the flow of the storyline.)

Disclaimer: Don't own.

* * *

Chapter 7

* * *

_Stuttgart, Germany._

* * *

"Kneel before me!"

Magic flowed through Loki like a river of power, phasing the formal Midgardian garments in which he was clothed back into the green-and-gold of his Asgardian armor, a helmet of long horns curving onto his head. His trip to Stuttgart, Germany had been a success. The small number of forces he'd carried into this particular mission had successfully acquired their prize. And now it was his turn to have a little fun.

When the humans continued to flee, scattering about the streets, he allowed the replicates of himself to surround them, a glow of energy from his spear creating a barrier around them as he shouted, "I said..._kneel_!"

A slow, patronizing grin spread across his face as the frightened Midagardians bowed, fearfully, before him, and he began to weave his way, slowly, through the crowd. "Is not this simpler? Is this _not_ your natural state?"

He examined each and every face in the crowd—some enthralled, others frightened, and others still offering glares and ugly expressions of dissension. But his smirk never faltered. "It's the unspoken truth of humanity that you crave subjugation. The bright _lure_ of freedom diminishes your life's joy in a mad scramble for power."

His eyes softened, a little—the gentle expression of a manipulator. "For identity."

He paused, standing firm and tall, in the middle of the crowd. "You were _made_ to be ruled. In the end," he glanced around, an expression of haughty dictation painting his face, "you will _always_ kneel."

"Not to men like you."

Loki's head snapped to the side—to gaze at an older man who stood, proudly, refusing to kneel.

Loki grinned, the expression one of mocking. "There are no men like me."

"There are always men like you."

Loki felt the childish anger of being compared—even without Thor's presence—to another (any other) well up in his heart, and he murmured, "Look to your elder, people." His eyes narrowed as he pointed his spear. "Let him be the example."

The magic left the spear; it jolted forward; immediately, it was slingshot back into him, knocking him onto his face. As he lifted his head, his green eyes found the source of the attack.

Captain America.

_Perfect_, Loki thought, _Exactly as planned_.

And as the soldier spoke down on him, Loki stood, smirking. He did not allow to the American to shake him. He bit right back. Then, the fight was on.

It was then that he first heard her voice.

"_Loki, stand down._"

It was of no consequence to him—at this moment. He had no idea, however, how important it might become.

He still did not like the interference, though. Pointing his spear, he tried to take down the source of the voice—the hovering ship—but for the moment, his concentration was broken, and as he struggled to get it back, he was unprepared for the loud burst of music that radiated from the floating machine, or the slam of Midgard's metal man into his body.

He was knocked, forcefully, into the stairs just behind him as the Man of Iron slammed himself down onto the cobbled brick in front of him. An array of weaponry appeared from within the suit's confines.

"Make a move, Reindeer Games."

And as Loki raised his hands in surrender, allowing an expression of unhappy capture to flit onto his face, in his mind, he was smirking, his previous thought repeating itself: _Yes. Exactly as planned._

* * *

The Quinjet was on the ground now and Natasha was curious to get a good look at this man. In her anger, she had kept herself from fully examining any intel they had on him. She barely knew his face. But she knew what he'd done—especially to her closest friend. She knew she'd have to hold in the urge to ask about Barton—or give this creep a good once over for all she was sure he'd done to him. Their priority at the moment was the Tesseract, and as much as she disagreed, she knew how to follow orders.

She'd been trained to.

The back hatch opened and as the pilot sat, rambling off coordinates and the like to headquarters, the engines idling so they could make a quick take off, Natasha stood from her co-pilot spot and walked through the plane to the back, just in case they needed an extra set of hands. After all, this man was, allegedly, some kind of god.

And though it was difficult to believe in such things, something about his magic unnerved her. It made her question. The dance of blues and golds made her wonder—and called up something familiar in her heart.

Shaking those thoughts away, she paused, as Stark and Rogers, with a hand on each of Loki's arms, dragged him up the ramp and into the spacious cargo area of the Quinjet.

Natasha let her eyes fall on the villain, fully, for the first time. And as she examined him, taking in every detail of his person, she nearly gasped out loud when he deep blue eyes met his gleaming emerald green ones.

They were _so_ green. And _so_ familiar to her. In fact, she was surprised to find that tears had sprung to her eyes suddenly—strange and unexplainable; unfamiliar—despite the swiftness of the shared gaze.

Little did she realize, in the quickness of their first eye contact, that Loki's heart somersaulted into his stomach upon meeting her eyes. The blue—so familiar. It was _her_ blue. Anastasia's. How could anyone have eyes so similar to hers?

In the silent connection of the moment, the truth of Loki's mission—outside of his jealousy and anger toward his brother—floated into his mind. _When I am king, _malenkaya_, I will never allow the pitiful human factions to destroy lives and families the way yours was. My absolute rule will keep such travesties from occurring _ever_ again, to anyone...like you..._

His eyes lingered on Natasha's for a moment, before turning his face from her, head bowed. _She reminds me of you. How I miss you, _malenkaya. _How I've missed you for...so long..._

As he was placed, roughly, in a seat and buckled in, he glared at the foolish Midgardian heroes. _I will repair this world for you, _malenkaya. _Repair it in a way that my idiotic brother never could. I promise._

He glanced, one last time, at Natasha from his seat, before the woman moved, with swift, frazzled steps through the plane and threw herself into her seat. Blinking back the strange tears, brought on by the eyes of a stranger she _hated_ (or wanted to hate, in any case), she set her jaw, firmly, buckled her belt and turned her mind toward her mission.

It was safer there—it was what she _knew_.

And she was comfortable with what she _knew_.

* * *

_Quinjet_

* * *

The foolish mortal heroes were speaking to one another about the soldier's age. The man of metal was one whom Loki believed, in another life, perhaps he could have been friends with. They shared a dry wit that they applied so flawlessly to the lives around them. But this was the here, and now, and Loki hated them all.

Except her. For reasons beyond his understanding, he could not pull his mind from the human woman. Whenever he thought he'd gathered his bearings, his mind would flutter to short red curls and eyes so blue—so familiarly blue. He hated how like Anastasia's eyes they were. He had worked for decades to try and quell the devastation in his heart after her death. To have such a reminder thrust in front of him was heart-wrenching.

His mind raced with the picture of her face—it wasn't just her eyes, though they were the most telling feature. The sharpness of her jaw, and the curve of her cheeks and nose all spoke to him. If he was completely honest with himself—and had spent more time studying Anastasia's family—he would have immediately attributed her beauty to that of Empress Alexandra.

Because Natasha looked _just_ like her.

But his mind reeled with the uncomfortable strangeness of her blue, _blue_ eyes to make such connections between the women. And he had spent so much of his time in the shadows with Anastasia that her mother's face would have been the last one on his mind. Ever.

It was in the midst of these thoughts that the lightning started.

Loki's expression changed completely—he knew it was far more than coincidental that a sudden lightning storm would crop up right in the flight path of this flying monstrosity. His eyes filled with worry—perhaps even fear—and he turned his face upward, green orbs scanning the ceiling of the aircraft, as if trying to see through it. As if trying to see what was coming—or who.

The soldier noticed him immediately. "What? Scared of a little lightning?"

Loki twisted his frightened features toward the star-spangled man and murmured, "I'm not overly fond of what follows."

The Quinjet shuddered, suddenly, as if a great weight had been dropped on it, and, immediately, Natasha opened the back hatch so that one of the two heroes could investigate. Suddenly, among Loki and the two costumed men, a fourth body appeared—a great, bulky silhouette; a line drawing of muscles and armor, who, carrying a massive hammer, stalked into the back of the jet on a mission.

He pulled Loki, with force, from his seat, despite protests from the other two men, and Natasha, glancing behind her, recognized him, immediately. She'd seen _his_ picture before. After Coulson's stint in New Mexico.

Thor.

Wrapping his thick fingers around Loki's neck, he swung his hammer around like a propeller and slung both of them out of the back of the plane without question.

Both Tony and Steve followed, despite all protests.

_Basically gods_ is what Natasha had said. Still, as Loki's mind had lingered on her, hers had lingered on him, and she wondered.

Wondered what it all meant.

* * *

_Cliffside_

* * *

Thor was going to have words with his brother. There would be no stopping that. To allow their mother to sit, for so long, and mourn his death without even a hint that he might be alive was unacceptable. To declare war on the world he loved so dearly, even more so.

Slamming Loki down into the dirt of a nearby cliffside, Thor growled, "Where is the Tesseract?"

His anger heightened at Loki's condescending cackle and the answer of, "Oh, I missed you too!"

"Do I look to be in a gaming mood to you?" Thor roared in reply, as the younger brother stood, his hand pressed firmly to his back, which throbbed from Thor's previous tactics.

The Trickster moved past Thor, limping a little and mumbled, "You should thank me. How much dark energy did the Allfather have to muster to conjure you here? Your precious Earth."

Thor dropped Mjolnir, immediately, and grabbed Loki, twisting him around to look at him, his blue eyes so full of sorrow, guilt, and relief. "I thought you dead."

Loki's eyes narrowed—he wanted none of Thor's emotions, or the pain in his eyes. "Did your mourn?"

"We all did! Our father-"

"_Your_ father," Loki said, stopping him mid-sentence, before breaking away from his grasp and moving past him again and down the sloping path away from the cliff. "He did tell you of my true parentage, did he not?"

Thor's eyes saddened further, but his tone grew loud and desperate. "We were raised together! We played together, we _fought_ together! Do you remember none of that?"

"_I remember a shadow_!" barked Loki, turning to glare at Thor with all of the anger and hurt his emerald irises could muster. "Living in the _shade_ of your greatness. I remember _you_ tossing me into an abyss—I who was and _should_ be king."

"So you take the world I _love_ as recompense for your imagined sleights? No! The Earth is under _my protection_," Thor argued back, glaring just as harshly at Loki.

"You forget I once loved it, too!" growled the younger, and then laughed, bitterly, "and as for your protection, you're doing a _marvelous_ job." His face grew dark, remembering days when Midgard had been a second home, remembering _her_ and remembering the slaughter her family had had to endure. "The _humans_ slaughter each other in droves while you _idly _fret. I mean to rule them!"

Thor watched all of the emotions that crossed Loki's face in that moment—anger, pain, sorrow, guilt, fear. And in hearing the words of Loki's lost love of Midgard, and the way his face grew shadowed at the idea of the human war—slaughter—he was able to put together the pieces.

"This is not only about me," he said, finally. "This is about _her_. You believe you can stop it—anymore deaths and tragedies like Anastasia's."

Loki was silent, his arms crossing heavily over his chest, his face completely averted from Thor's. "You make foolish assumptions, and think yourself right because you are the golden son. You have never once experienced the pain of loss, yet you receive the glory of honor."

His eyes snapped to Thor, finally. "Anastasia's death was senseless. It was _unnecessary_. She was a _child_. As I was when _your_ father abducted me. We were the same." His eyes glazed over with unshed tears. "And despite the fact that Midgard's history includes the story of her passing, still these idiotic mortals you _love_ so dearly kill and destroy lives like hers, perpetually. They _need_ someone with _sense_ to set them right!"

"You think yourself above them?" Thor asked, ignoring how twisted Loki's logic was—he was in pain, and it was causing his mind tremendous strain.

"Well, yes."

Thor shook his head. "Then, you miss the point of ruling brother. A throne would suit you ill. And you will never garner the respect you need to enact the changes your heart desires, no matter how noble."

Loki growled, thrusting his fist into Thor's chest as he climbed back to the top of the cliff, hissing, "I've seen worlds you've never known about! I have grown, _Odinson_, in my exile! I have seen the true power of Tesseract, and when I wield it-"

"Who showed you this power," Thor interrupted, approaching him with fierce determination. "Who controls the would-be king?"

"_I am a king_!" shouted Loki, who was then quickly jostled by the harsh heaviness of hands grasping his armor.

"Not here!" Thor growled. "You give up the Tesseract, you give up this pointless dream!"

Loki watched as Thor's expression softened and a brotherly hand came up, resting on his neck, gripping the side of his face like an affection older sibling might. For a moment, he felt his heart falter, he felt the need to give in, as Thor murmured, "You come home."

But Anastasia's face fluttered into his mind, and he shook his head. "I don't have it."

Mjolnir was, suddenly, in Thor's hand.

Loki merely smirked and shook his head. "I've sent it off. I know not where."

"Listen well, brother. I-"

And then, Thor was gone. And Loki, unable to resist, replied:

"I'm listening."

* * *

_SHIELD Helicarrier_

* * *

Bruce was uneasy. Something seemed _off_ to him. Fury had said that he was only bringing him in to locate the Tesseract. Apparently the cube radiated low levels of gamma energy and, being the expert on gamma radiation, of course he'd be the man for the job. But something just felt...

_Wrong_.

He had set up all of his equipment and recalibrated everything in the laboratory to pick up anything out of the ordinary in the way of gamma energy. But so far, nothing, and no matter how close he got to finding something, or how much Fury or Agent Hill reassured him that his presence was no more than a search-and-sieze operation, he had the feeling Fury was keeping something from him.

Keeping something from all of them.

Pushing the sleeves of his purple button-down up off of his forearms, he adjusted his glasses, and continued to recalculate and adjust equations and equipment, trying to focus in on the Tesseract's symbol. He glanced up, suddenly, when Agent Hill's head poked into the lab.

"Director Fury wants you up on the bridge in fifteen minutes. Romanoff's team just returned. They've got Loki in custody."

"Why me?" Bruce asked. "I thought I was just here for this."

"Because it might be easier to locate the Tesseract if Loki just tells us. Then, your job would be done."

_He's not going to tell you,_ was Bruce's initial thought, but he nodded. "Fine. Fifteen minutes." He turned back to his work.

Ten minutes later, a different feeling of unease struck him, creeping up the back of his neck and causing the hairs to stand on end. He felt the uncertain tension of someone watching him and as he glanced up, he frowned, deeply, as Loki was ushered by in the custody of five or six SHIELD agents, yet still managed to grin, knowingly, at him.

_What is your play_? Bruce wondered, shuddering all the way down to his toes, before he swallowed, hard and stood.

Maybe he'd find his answers on the bridge.

Maybe.

* * *

Natasha's eyes were focused—focused on the screen beneath her. She watched as Loki paced, back and forth, in the cage, a grin spread across his cocky face, his voice flitting out of the speakers like smooth silk as he and Fury exchanged heated words—or rather, Fury offered heated words and Loki refused to let them muster him.

She recognized herself in him. He was a manipulator, a Trickster, and not easily shaken. He was a child of lies, and deceptions and she wondered exactly what had happened to him to cause him to act in such a monstrous way. It was apparent by Thor's ever-changing expression of grief, guilt and sorrow that Loki had once loved and been loved.

So, what had changed?

As Fury left the Trickster's chamber, Natasha lifted her head. Steve was speaking, asking Thor about Loki's next move. It was clear that it had something to do with the Helicarrier. It wasn't as if someone as strong as Loki would let a group of ordinary humans capture him for no reason. That, she knew for certain.

"I don't think we should focus too much on Loki," Bruce said, clearly not swayed by an off-handed _beast_ comment that Loki had made minutes prior. "That guy's mind is a bag of cats. You can _smell _crazy on him."

"Have _care_ how you speak! " roared Thor, suddenly, and Natasha felt a twinge of sympathy toward him. He clearly still loved his brother very much. Natasha almost hated having to bring up the span of Loki's devastation to him, despite his continued need to defend him.

Upon hearing it, Thor's face fell, and he said the first thing that came to mind: "He's adopted."

_Adopted_? Natasha frowned, deeply, and again, she saw herself mirrored in Loki. She had never been Ivan's real daughter—just a tool for him to use as he pleased. She wondered if Loki's reason for adoption was much the same.

She wondered if he was just someone's pawn.

* * *

"Romanoff."

Natasha was training when Fury approached her an hour later. Stark had arrived and was helping Bruce locate the Tesseract. Steve was wandering the halls of the Helicarrier, clearly unsure what to do with himself in this world of high-technology and low social skills, when he wasn't fighting or training himself.

As for Thor—she got the feeling that was why Fury was coming to see her.

"Well?" she asked as her fists shot out, swiftly, like bullets from a gun, and collided with the punching bag in front of her. She was still dressed in her bodysuit, knowing that at any moment, another problem could crop up due to the Tesseract's compromised state of misplacement. This was just to pass the time—and to help her think. After all, Clint was still out there, somewhere, and he needed her. Whether he realized it or not, he needed her.

"Thor doesn't have it in him. He still has faith in Loki," Fury replied. "Still loves him."

"So," Natasha said, pausing, a bitter smile spreading across her face as she bowed her head and examined her gloved knuckles. "You figure you'd send someone who can't feel love?"

"No," Fury replied, an exasperated expression painting his face. Twelve years and sometimes, he still regretted bringing someone on who was essentially the female equivalent of himself. "I'm sending someone who is his equal in manipulation. And yeah, maybe it doesn't hurt that you're not so easily swayed by a sob story."

Natasha chuckled, superfluously, and shook her head. "You know," she said, looking up, her smile only surface deep, not reaching her stern, bitter blue eyes. "Clint seems to be the only one around here who thinks I have the capacity to care."

"Yeah," Fury offered. "Even over your own self."

Natasha's mouth fell into a sour, puckered expression, blue orbs twisting to glare at him. She knew that. She knew it was hard for even her own heart to soften to the idea of friends, family or love. She knew that because, despite Clint's kindness, in the deepest parts of her heart, she still believed love to be a weakness.

But she knew she loved Clint. He was like a brother to her—and she would tear down walls and worlds to save him.

She would even face the monster, head-on.

_Is that really how you see him? As a monster? _

Natasha frowned, her brow furrowing. _Yes. _

_Then the monster intrigues you. And reminds you._

_Of what?_

Silence.

Pressing her lips tightly together, Natasha glanced at Fury as she picked up a water bottle from a nearby table, allowed her curiosity to get the better of her (as well as the need to save Clint) and then nodded. "Fine. I'll do it."

"Good," Fury murmured, and turned to leave. Pausing, he swung himself back around halfway, his good-eye bearing into her. "And Romanoff..."

She paused with the bottle halfway to her lips and glanced at him again, questioning.

"Don't let him get the better of you," he murmured. "Don't fail."

_Sometimes, Fury, it scares me how much you sound like Ivan._ "Don't worry, sir," she replied, taking a long swig of her water and then offered, "You know I never fail."

* * *

"And whatever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through Him." Colossians 3: 17

_I'd like to thank my Lord Jesus for the talent I have to write and the intelligence, quirk and outgoing personality I need to be a fangirl who can look beyond what is offered and see what could be. That's the beauty of fanfiction and I give all the glory to Him for providing such an outlet and practice medium for me._

_I also want to thank ALL of my reviewers for their kindness and their willingness to loyally continue reading this fic. Thank you _**so **_much!_

_Please_ review.


	9. Chapter 8

Well, I assume this is the chapter you've all been waiting for—the one with the interrogation! I just hope I do the amazing scene justice. It's the scene that made me realize these characters were made for each other. It's the scene that turned me into a Loki fangirl. I hope you all enjoy!

Now: _Malenkaya_

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I'm only borrowing the dialogue for my purposes, giving all credit to the wonderful Joss Whedon for his outstanding writing and his spot-on characterization. Well done, sir!

* * *

Chapter 8

* * *

_SHIELD Helicarrier – Detainment Deck_

* * *

Loki paced back and forth in his glass prison, contemplating his next course of action. It was clear he had to find a way to unleash the beast known as the Hulk on the Helicarrier. If he could get the bulking, bellowing monstrosity to tear through the floating headquarters, he may be able to expedite his plans without having to go to last resort measures.

Which he _did _have. It was a fact that any schemer and manipulator always had a plan B, in case plan A failed.

He paused in his pacing, his back to the door that led into his prison room, and smirked, his eyes sliding to glance over his shoulder. "There's not many people who can sneak up on me."

He turned, training his eyes on the beautiful, curving body of the woman who stood just a few feet from the transparent cage. It was her. Agent Natasha Romanoff. _Romanoff. Even her name is reminiscent of yours, _malenkaya_. It unnerves me, greatly._

"But you figured I'd come," the woman replied. Her eyes examined him—scrutinized him.

"After." Loki replied. "After whatever tortures Fury could concoct, you would appear as a friend. As a balm." He grinned widely. "And I would cooperate."

Natasha was unshaken. She stood, firm, determined, in front of his prison, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "I want to know what you've done to Agent Barton."

Loki was unyielding, with an unflinching lack of remorse as he smirked and shrugged, replying, "I'd say I've expanded his mind."

A battle waged more deeply in her heart—the battle of familiar intrigue for this man in front of her versus the intense loathing she _wanted_ to feel because he'd compromised her best friend. She stepped forward, slowly, murmuring, "And once you've won...once you're...king of the mountain...what happens to his mind?"

A angry well of jealousy rose up in Loki's heart, unexplainable and deep, but he hid it well behind a toothy grin. "Is this love, Agent Romanoff?"

"Love is for children," was her automatic response, even though she knew better. She did love Clint. Perhaps not in the way he loved her, but it was love all the same. Still, her heart refused to let her love like that. Not yet, anyway. "I owe him a debt."

Loki took calculating steps backward, never tearing his eyes from hers. Gesturing toward her with long, slender fingers, he offered, "Tell me."

He studied her—and the sense of familiarity grew with each passing second. He was curious—not just so he could have leverage over her. No. It was as if he was searching for answers in her very presence. Something that could explain the unyielding urge within him to protect her—the undying need to halt whatever ministrations he had enacted that had caused her any pain.

She let her eyes search him for a split second—calculate his movements, and his face, for any kind of trick, and when she found one, she turned, seating herself in front of his prison and spoke.

"Before I worked for SHIELD, I made a name for myself," she began, her hands resting, carefully, on her knees. "I have a very specific skill set. And I didn't care what I used it for—or on."

Loki's eyes continued to study her, bearing into her very being, never lifting their emerald gaze from her as she spoke. He was captivated by her lips, and the gleam of blue in her eyes. She reminded him so very deeply of his _malenkaya_ and it wrenched at his heart to watch her so thoroughly. Weakened him.

"I got on SHIELD's radar in a bad way," she murmured, averting her gaze from his. "Agent Barton was sent to kill me. He...made a different call."

Loki's heart shuddered in his chest, and the wrenching desire to take back any wrongdoing he'd ever done against her rose up in him, causing the words to spill from his lips before he could think on them: "And what would you do if I vowed to spare him?"

"Not let you out," she replied, swiftly.

He, immediately, collected himself and grinned. "_No_, but I like this. Your world in the balance, and you bargain for one man."

"He's my best friend," she said without thinking. "The only one I've ever had." _Lukas, _her mind screamed. She ignored it. "And regimes fall every day. I tend not to weep over that. I'm Russian. Or I was."

That caused something dark to rise up in Loki and he stood. "Regimes fall every day, says the Russian lady," he murmured, his tone distant and frighteningly calm. "So, you must know of the little Russian princess and her family."

Natasha's brow furrowed.

"They were royalty," Loki murmured, and she could hear the tightness in his voice—the anger, the despair. "So, wouldn't you say their little family counted as a regime? They ruled a whole country—_your_ country. And they were slaughtered—like cattle."

Natasha stood, suddenly, a throbbing headache suddenly pressing against her temples. There was something frightening and familiar about this story. Something she didn't like. She'd never heard it before—though she'd heard whispers, of course. But whenever she'd asked Ivan about it, he'd brush her off—even snap at her, tell her to leave.

"I watched them _die_," Loki snapped, slamming his hands against the glass, his face twisted with insane anger—a rushing, undeniable fury that was unlike any she'd seen on the calm, collected demi-god since she'd met him.

"If you think so _little_ of this world you claim to protect, that you would be so _comfortable_ with the death of a child and her family, then you really are as cold-hearted as Barton said you were. Sao Paolo, the hospital fire—_Drakov's daughter_!"

The flitting memory of the girl filled her mind—she had felt the same familiarity then. As if something horrible was trapped in her memory, trapped deep behind a wall of training and conditioning, and poor little Katarina Drakov was once her—a frightened girl, who's time it was not yet to die. Why? _Why_?

"That's why," Natasha murmured, her voice shaking a little. "I've got red in my ledger-"

"Your ledger is _dripping_! It's _gushing _red!" barked Loki, the madness in his eyes making them burn a boiling green. "And you think saving a man no more _virtuous_ than yourself will change _anything_?! This is the basest sentimentality!"

In that moment, she truly did want to break down. To disappear, to destroy herself right there in front of him. His eyes were so green and so familiar—she felt as if she'd lived so many lives with those eyes and they had told her worlds of truths. And now, after so many truths, were they speaking lies?

"It's a child a prayer! Pathetic!" Loki was breathing, harshly, anger bubbling up from every pore. To think anyone could be so cruel. He had committed travesties, it was true, but for the betterment of this world. For people like his little _malenkaya_, who could not defend themselves. To believe that anyone, man or woman, could be okay with "regimes falling" by any means necessary _digusted_ him.

"You lie and kill," he breathed, "in the service of _liars and killers_. You _pretend_ to be separate, to have your own code. Something that makes up for the horrors..."

His eyes narrowed at her, loathing her existence, and yet somehow wishing he didn't. Somewhere, inside, he _loved_ and loathed her equally. And he couldn't even explain why. "But they are part of you. And they will never go away."

Again, he slammed his hand against the glass, his eyes blazing with ferocity. "If you truly believe the way you say you do, then you deserve whatever tortures _I _concoct for you." He took a deep, shuddering breath, remembered her calling Barton her _best friend_ with misplaced jealousy, and growled, "And so I won't _kill_ Barton. Not until I make him _kill_ you. Slowly. _Intimately_. In every way he knows you _fear_. And then I'll let him wake just long enough to see his good work, and when he screams, he who believes so much like you, I'll _split his skull_! That is for _Anastasia _and her family—that is my _bargain_, you _mewling quim_!"

Anastasia?

Her family?

Truly shuddering, she turned from him, tears in her eyes. That name. There was _something_ about that name—paired with his green eyes, his black hair. Paired with the smooth paleness of his skin. _Anastasia. _Why did she feel connected to that _name_?

_Now is not the time, Romanoff. Get a hold of yourself. _

Collecting her thoughts—remembering her mission—she continued to allow her body to shudder, as if frightened and crying, murmuring, "You're a monster."

"Oh no," Loki said, collecting his own bearings, a shaking grin spreading across his face. "You _brought_ the monster."

_Bingo_, Natasha thought and then turned, her tears and shaking completely gone, her body stable and firm once again. Her face was alight with victory. "So. Banner. That's your play."

Loki's brow furrowed, suddenly, and he looked thoroughly one-upped. "What?"

Natasha pressed the button on her comm-link immediately, informing Fury of Loki's plan and then paused, just before leaving and turned to him. Her eyes met his in that moment, and though she wanted to taunt him, to say something that would rub salt into his wounded ego, her mouth and heart had different plans.

As in by instinct, she instead replied: "I told you I'd be the one tricking you someday."

She turned to leave, never catching the shocked, heartbroken expression that fell hard like a brick over Loki's face.

* * *

She was running through the cold, metal hallways of the Helicarrier, letting her feet take her where they may. She knew she should be convening in the lab with the rest of the team, but her heart was racing from the encounter with Loki. She was confused, and terrified. Her mind was reeling with the blurry images and memories of things past—things she couldn't clearly see but caused a heavy bubble of nostalgia to well up in her chest.

And the words she had spoken—it's as if she'd been someone else completely. Someone who knew Loki from time past—who had a history with him. But it was _impossible._

_Anastasia._

He had known her. He had watched her die.

Every Russian knew the story. She knew _very _little of it, though. For some reason, Ivan had never wanted her to know. And she was nothing if not a good little tool. But the name resonated with her.

She _knew_ she should go to the lab. But she made a detour to the archives—a room set up with a massive super computer that archived every known happening that had ever occurred on Earth. Both terrestrial and extra terrestrial.

Sliding her ID card into the reader, she slipped into the sliding metal doors as quietly as possible and seated herself behind the computer. The room was dark and her face was lit only by the light of the computer screen as she flipped it on. With swift, deft fingers, she typed the name _Anastasia._ The archives swam, suddenly, with pages and pages, and lists and lists. But at the very top of their search was one single, solitary name.

_Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova_.

Natasha's eyes widened when she read the child's surname. _**Romanova**_.

_That's my name,_ she thought, chastising herself for sounding so like a inquisitive child in her own head.

_No,_ another part of her mind, deep, sounding much like a child's voice, replied. _That's the name Ivan Petrovitch gave you_.

She shook her head. She remembered the doctor's words, clearly.

"_Would you like to know your name?" _

_It is my name. Natalia Romanova. Natasha Romanoff. That's who I am._

_Romanova, for sure_, the child in her mind replied. _But not Natalia. Think, _malenkaya. _Think_.

"Malenkaya," she said aloud, and the sudden urge to ask Loki about the nickname swelled in her heart. She stood, moving on instinct suddenly, prepared to return to detainment and ask him when a sudden harsh shudder shook the entire Helicarrier, and she felt a slight shift in the levelness of the base.

"_Romanoff_!" It was Fury's voice over her comm-link. "_Where in the hell are you_?"

"Archives, sir," she replied, pressing the button in her ear.

"_Why in the hell did you not come to the lab_? _You're the one who sent us all there_!"

"There was a change of plans, sir."

"_Screw your change of plans_! _Get on bridge, immediately_! _We've got a situation_!"

The base shuddered again, and this time she heard a distant explosion. She frowned, and murmured, "Yes, sir. Right away."

Apparently, Loki had opted for Plan B.

* * *

Clint's job was simple. Reach the detainment deck and free the boss. It wasn't supposed to be a hard mission or a messy one. He'd already blown one of the Helicarrier's engines, so there was really no reason for things to get any more complicated than this.

Of course, he didn't realize his little explosion had happened in the middle of an argument between a bunch of testerone fueled heroic wannabes, nor did he realize that Bruce Banner, in all of his chaos, had been in the middle of that argument, and then thrust, harshly, down two decks by the explosion.

In essence, he didn't really expect the Hulk to come bursting through the floor onto the deck he was currently racing through. With a roar, the bulking green beast rushed him, but Clint was faster on his feet and he leaped, catching his bow on some piping and pulling himself up onto a scaffolding.

As the Hulk's thick fingers grasped the scaffolding and began to pull it down, Clint dodged and dove through another set of pipes, ducking under some wiring and through a third row of piping onto some stairs. He could hear the growl of anger as the Hulk ripped through each hunk of metal that blocked him from his prize—Clint.

Clint swung himself back down onto the main scaffolding of the deck hallway, and glancing behind him as he heard the thudding footsteps of the creature following, he didn't notice Natasha rushing toward him. And in her own distracted haze, as she tried to process the information she'd just attained, she didn't notice him either.

The momentum was too much to allow them to stop when they did finally see one another, and they crashed, like wrecking balls, into the other, knocking each other down. Stars swam behind each of their eyes as they tried to collect themselves before the steps got closer, but it was too late by the time they had shaken the haze away, and the Hulk was tearing right for them.

Natasha realized how dangerous this situation was—her (current) enemy, Clint, standing right next to her and the Hulk barreling toward her. Clint looked at her, glared hard, and pulled an arrow from his quiver. He set it and aimed it straight for her, and as the Hulk drew closer, she realized he was killing two birds with one stone.

Until, despite himself, he pivoted, on her heel, and sank the arrow into the Hulk. Electricity coursed through him and he dropped, like a rock, through the floor and down into one of the cargo decks three floor below. For now, he was not their problem. But Natasha had no doubt he was about to become someone else's and she needed to help.

She moved past Clint (for now, despite her emotional judgments) and started for the hole in the floor, but the man grabbed her by the arm and spun her around. She had barely enough time to react as he swung his bow at her like a scythe, ducking just in time to swipe her leg up under his and knock him to the ground. However, he jumped up quickly and swung his bow around again like a baseball bat, but she grabbed it and used its springy leverage to clock him in the mouth. However, he was able to use the position to spin them around and trap her and her arms in the middle of the bow.

Using the back of her head, she knocked him in the forehead, kicked him in the chest and sent him reeling backwards. He discarded the bow finally and rushed her, grabbing her left arm and twisting it around, his right hand dealing a blow into her back. She stumbled, the breath knocked out of her but spun back around to meet his advances. She threw a three consecutive jabs, two of which landing, solidly, on his chest and stomach, before the third was caught him, and he jerked his free hand out in a fist and made contact with her stomach, hard.

She doubled over, grabbing her stomach, sweat pouring down her face. Her blue eyes turned up to meet his, and then he rushed her again. Now was her last shot. Now was her last chance. If her extensive study of the human body and brain was going to do her any good, it was going to be now. As soon as he was close enough, his arm extended swiftly to land a final blow to her temple, and, as he did, she swung her torso up, grabbed his arm, hyper-extended it as far as it would go and swung him around into the bright yellow bars surrounding the scaffolding they fought atop of. His head connected, firmly, solidly, and he fell to the ground, a thick knot appearing on his forehead.

Natasha panted, her eyes bearing down on him, before his opened, glittering a blurry, normal blue, and he murmured, "...Tasha?"

Her fist shot out and connected with his nose, knocking him out cold.

For good measure.

* * *

The door to Loki's cell slid open just as Thor approached. He had just finished containing the Hulk, when the large, green creature had come crashing through the ceiling into the cargo deck where Mjolnir was being kept. After his altercation with Bruce's alter ego, which had ended in the Hulk furiously leaping onto a jet just outside of the Helicarrier, Thor had immediately rushed for Loki's cell. He knew if there were people attacking the base, it was more likely than not on Loki's orders.

Upon seeing him coming out of his glass prison, Thor cried, "No!" and rushed him. He was immediately taken off guard by Loki's body phasing into transparency, and he slid through him into the cell. The door slammed shut behind him.

Loki looked at him with nonchalant eyes. "Are you ever _not _ going to fall for that?"

Thor's jaw clenched behind, his teeth gritting behind his lips as he watched Loki approach the panel that Fury had previously shown him how to use—the panel that caused the glass prison to drop, like a rock, to the Earth below.

Loki paused, and glanced at Thor. "Who is she?"

Thor's brow furrowed. "Who?"

"Agent Romanoff. Who _is_ she?"

"I know not, brother, I've only just met her!" Thor replied, frowning. "Why ask you?"

Loki growled. "It's of no consequence." _I'm simply creating false realities—wishing for her to be someone she clearly is not_. He glanced at Thor. "You know, these humans think us immortal."

He reached out to open the hatch beneath the cage. "Shall we test that?" But before he could hit the button, he heard the loud thrum of energy coursing through metal and plastic and he looked up to find Agent Coulson pointing a large weapon at him.

"Move away, please," the man murmured, calmly. He gestured toward the gun. "You like this? We started developing them after you sent the Destroyer. Even I don't know what it does." He tilted it toward the hostile demi-god, determinedly. "Wanna find-"

He never finished the sentence. As Thor cried out in rage from the prison cell, and Coulson gasped in pain, Loki phased out and back in a matter of seconds, spear now in hand, the long, sharp blade protruding through the agent's chest. The gun was dropped—discarded—and Coulson fell to the ground as Loki ripped the spear from him. He turned to look at Thor, his eyes full of emotions, all swimming—anger, bitterness, fear, sorrow, uncertainty. All amassing in a swirl of gleaming green.

He pressed the button to open the hatch beneath Thor, and then, he hesitated.

"You don't have to do this, brother," Thor murmured. "She wouldn't _want_ justice—not _this_ way."

Loki's eyes snapped to Thor, and he growled, "How would _you_ know what she would have wanted? Or what _I _wanted? Back then...you were never more interested in anything but _yourself_."

"Loki..."

"Goodbye, Thor," Loki said, finally, and then hit the lever.

"Lok-!"

The cage dropped.

Flicking the panel back to its original defaults, he watched the hatch slide closed again and then turned. Part of him knew he needed to escape while he still had the chance—the other part wanted to search out Natasha Romanoff. What she'd said to him—the words she'd used—had unnerved him beyond anyt other familiarity he might have felt toward her. Those words...only Anastasia would've had the knowledge of that conversation to use them.

However, not only had he watched Anastasia _die_, but even if she hadn't, she would have most likely been dead by now. It had been nearly a century since their friendship—since her death.

Conflicted, he turned, to leave, settling to let his instincts guide him, but paused when he heard Coulson, struggling, ask, "Who is _she_?"

Loki halted in his stride and turned, his eyes narrowed. "That's none of your business, mortal."

"Whoever she is," Coulson wheezed, "she's the reason you'll lose."

"Is she?" Loki asked, mockingly. "Your heroes are scattered. Your floating fortress _falls_ from the sky. And yet you claim I have _any_ disadvantage?"

"I see the conflict in your eyes when you talk about her," Coulson breathed, blood seeping wetly onto his clothes and hand. "You lack _conviction_."

"I don't think I-"

There was a surge of power, and a blast of pain that shot through Loki, slamming his body through the thick metal wall opposite Coulson.

Coulson glanced, eyes half-lidded, at the weapon at his side.

"So that's what it does."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Tony and Steve entered the main bridge of the Helicarrier, looking a little worse for wear after patching up the engine. The other agents were scrambling to contain a virus that had caused a second engine to crash, but for the most part, they'd gotten the chaos under control. However, each body on deck was moving a little slower, their faces fallen and sad. Word had just come over the comms that Coulson was down. Permanently.

Tony glanced around at the others on the bridge. They were all still working as if nothing had happened. Sure, they were sluggish and sad, but it was as if their little world could not stop for even a second to commemorate their fallen friend. Turning, he went to leave, despite Steve trying to alert him to the Quinjet that had just departed.

Loki had just gotten away.

However, Fury stopped him from departing. Tony glared at him.

"Get out of my way."

"Take a seat, Mr. Stark. You too, Captain." Fury called to Steve. "We need to talk."

"Guess your world doesn't stop for fallen friends, either, huh?" hissed Tony.

"_Sit_, Stark. Now."

Eventually, the two men obliged.

Fury tossed the vintage Captain America trading cards, drenched in Coulson's blood down on the table in front of them. Steve remembered Coulson asking him to sign them. He remembered Coulson's admiration of all he'd done. But right now, he felt as if he'd failed Coulson—failed them _all_.

"These," Fury said, quietly, "were in Phil Coulson's jacket."

Steve glanced at Tony. Bruce was right. They weren't a team. They _were_ a "time bomb". But, as Fury spoke about the old-fashioned notion of heroes, and Tony stood, pain and anger painted on his face, to leave, he knew they were both realizing something: they _needed_ to be a team. And Coulson had given them exactly what they _needed_.

The push.

* * *

"Flee all youthful lusts but pursue righteousness, faith, love, peace with those who call on the Lord out of a pure heart." 2 Timothy 2:22

_Please_ review.


	10. Chapter 9

Wow, this story is getting a lot more response (and reviews) in its first eight chapters than _Endurance _did. I feel so blessed. Thank you all for following me on this strange journey I call _Malenkaya_. It's far from over, lovelies!

So, without further ado: _Malenkaya_

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. The lovely Joss Whedon, awesome Disney and marvelous Marvel do!

* * *

Chapter 9

* * *

_SHIELD Helicarrier_

* * *

Natasha hovered over Clint as he began to come to. She had restrained him to his bed in the Helicarrier, just in case any of Loki's influence lingered. She could see by the look in his eyes that he was feeling wave after wave of dizziness washing over him as he tried to collect his bearings and return to the land of living with his mind completely in tact. Dipping a rag into a basin of water, she pressed the cloth, gently, to his forehead and murmured, "You're going to be okay, Clint."

"Do you know that?" choked the groggy archer. "Is that what you know?"

Natasha watched him as he writhed, squirming. She could tell that some of Loki's magic still lingered.

"Gotta..." Clint breathed, "...flush him out."

"It's gonna take time," Natasha murmured, frowning at him. She picked up the cloth again, submerged it deeply in the water and then brought it back to Clint's forehead.

"Have you ever had someone take your brain and play?" croaked Clint.

_You have, _malenkaya, her mind replied without a second's thought.

"Take you out...and shove something else in?" he continued.

_Yes. Even now, you live in the effects of such carelessness_, the strangely familiar voice within her mind added.

"Have you ever been unmade?" he finished, looking up at the ceiling with frightened blue eyes.

Natasha watched him, her eyes swimming with emotions, her mind swimming with names. _Lukas. Anastasia Nikolaevna. _Even her own named was heavy with uncertain meaning now. _Romanova_.

"Maybe I have," she said, distantly, before sitting down next to Clint on his bed. She placed a hand, warmly, on his shoulder.

"Why am I back?" Clint asked, looking at her. "How'd you get him out?"

Her usual sardonic gleam was back as she smirked and replied, "Cognitive recalibration. I hit you really hard in the head."

Clint offered her a shaky smile. "Thanks."

Natasha offered a half-hearted smile in return and reached out, looping her fingers around the restraints on Clint's arms and releasing them. Then, she stood and went over to the table where the basin of water sat, and picked up a pitcher next to it, pouring the cool liquid into a tiny, plastic cup.

"How many agents did I-"

"Don't do that, Clint," Natasha interjected, turning and handing the cup to him. She sat back down next to him."It's not your fault. This is monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for."

"Did Loki get away?" Clint asked, raising an eyebrow as he glanced, sideways, at her.

She nodded. "Don't suppose you know where?"

He took a long sip of his water and shook his head. "Didn't need to know. Didn't ask. But he's going to make his play soon. Today."

Natasha stood, a charge of motivation suddenly rushing through her. "We need to stop him."

"Yeah? Who's we?"

She took a deep breath and then shrugged, shaking her head. "I don't know. Who's ever left."

"Well," Clint said as he finished his water. "If I put an arrow in Loki's eyesocket, I'd sleep better, I s'pose."

A strange kind of sadness—and a twinge of anger—rose up in Natasha's heart at the idea of that, but despite it, she murmured, "Now you sound like you."

Clint turned his head on his neck, craning it a little to look at the standing woman who's eyes swam with an uncertainty he hadn't seen in them since Belarus. "But you don't. You're a spy, not a solider. Now you want to wade into a war. Why? What did Loki do to you?"

"_I watched her _die_."_

"_I told you I'd be the one tricking you someday."_

_**Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova**_

The words swam like bittersweet poinson behind her eyes, causing a well of unsure emotions to rise up in her. Finally, speech spilled from her mouth in a soft, nearly inaudible tone.

"I've been compromised."

Before he could ask what she meant, she turned, leaving the room with heavy, firm footfalls. Clint allowed his eyes to follow her until she was out of sight.

And he wondered what had changed.

* * *

Steve approached Tony as he stood, still and contemplating, staring at the blood that stained the wall of the detainment area that Loki had been kept in. His hands were tucked behind his back, his blue eyes wondering, calculating.

"Was he married?"

Tony shook his head. "There was a cellist. I think."

"I'm sorry," murmured Steve. "He seemed like a good man."

"He _was_," said a new voice as Natasha entered, looking a little worse for wear herself as she approached the two men.

Tony shook his head. "He was an idiot."

"Why? For believing?" Steve asked, giving a nod of courtesy and respect to Natasha before he turned his eyes back to Tony.

"For taking on Loki alone."

"He was doing his job," snapped Steve.

"He was out of his league!" Tony growled in return.

Natasha watched them, crossing her arms, tightly, across her chest, her eyes narrowed. She had come to find them to inform them of Clint's notions that Loki might strike on that very day. It was time to enact a plan or not at all.

"He should have waited. He should have..." Tony continued, trailing off, looking lost all of sudden.

"Sometimes, Stark, there really isn't a way out," Steve tried to offer, soothingly.

"Right. Where have I heard that before?"

Steve closed his eyes, trying to stay patient. It seemed that Tony had been the closest to Coulson outside of actual SHIELD personnel. Calmly, he asked, "Is this the first time you've lost a soldier?"

"We are _not_ soldiers!" barked Tony, and Natasha couldn't help but feel he was right. This was not their fight. This shouldn't have to _be_ there fight. She wondered, then, why she felt like it was _her _fight most of all.

Tony turned to her. "You. You're one of Fury's. Why do you march to his fife, huh? When he's got the same blood on his hands as Loki!"

"You don't know me as well as you think you do, Stark," Natasha replied, and with a half-hearted smirk, she added, "I don't always do as I'm told."

"Well, _I _sure as hell am not going to," Tony growled.

"You're right, Stark," Steve murmured. "But right now, we have to put all of that behind us and get this done." He looked at Natasha. "What's up?"

"Clint's awake—I mean, _awake_. And he says Loki's going to make his move today," Natasha murmured. "We've got a limited window."

"Where?" Tony asked, suddenly interested.

Natasha shrugged, shaking her head.

Tony's calculating face was back, and both of the other occupants could practically see the wheels whirring behind blue eyes. Suddenly, he looked at them, stating, "He made it personal. Loki. He made it personal."

"So?" Steve asked. "What's the point?"

"_That's_ the point! He hit us all where it hurts. Why?"

"To separate us," Natasha offered, matter-of-factly.

"To tear us apart," Steve clarified.

"But he knew he'd need to beat us in order to win," Tony said, and the wheels spun faster and faster. "He _wants_ to beat us. And he wants to be seen doing it. He _wants_ an audience."

"Like his act in Stuttgart," Natasha murmured.

"Yes! But that was just previews. _This_ is opening night. And Loki, ohh, he's a full-tilt diva. He wants flowers, and parades. He wants a monument built to the skies with his name plastered on-"

All three of them had the same epiphany at once.

But it was Tony who voiced his concern:

"Sonuvabitch."

* * *

Steve opened the door to Clint's room as soon as the plan had been hatched. He wasn't sure how comfortable he was with Natasha and Tony's approach, but something told him he needed to let what was about to happen occur exactly as it was supposed to. Natasha Romanoff was far more entangled in this than he really understood, and if she and Tony were the geniuses everyone believed them to be, he just had to trust them.

"Hey," Steve said, already dressed in the red-white-and-blue that Coulson had so admired. He looked at Clint with determined eyes, and murmured, "Suit up. Time to go."

Clint glanced at him, his brow furrowed. "Where's Tasha?"

Steve was silent for a moment, and then: "Let her worry about that."

Clint wanted to question the answer.

But he didn't.

* * *

_Stark Tower - Manhattan, New York_

* * *

Erik Selvig had tried to fight the control that Loki had forced over him. So many times in the past few days, he had tried to break free. But it was impossible. Everytime he had almost broken free, the grasp of Loki's magic had tightened, deepened.

The machine he had been commissioned to build was finished now. And, despite his better instincts, he had even positioned it atop Stark Tower. Ready, according to his calculations, to rip through the fabric of time and space and open Loki's gods-forsaken portal.

The end was near, and he had been the almost-direct cause.

He only hoped, in the deepest recesses of his mind, that someone would discover his failsafe. That _someone_ would end the horror.

Even if, in the forefront of his mind, he was praising Loki and the Tesseract for the strengths and beauty of the _new universe_ he had promised.

And so it began.

* * *

Loki watched as the Iron Man suit whizzed toward Stark Tower. It paused, just over Selvig's head, and tried to shut down the machine with a eruption of energy from the blasters in the hands. But the machine was self-sustaining now—he could tell that by the way the magic in his scepter danced to life. The Chitauri were coming.

And soon.

The suit turned toward him, and he narrowed his eyes a little as he studied it. It landed, a few feet away from where he stood, on the platform, and bit by bit, the armor was stripped from the wearer.

And Loki was surprised to see who had been lingering beneath it's metal parts.

As the figure moved, slowly, with sure, firm steps into the Tower, Loki followed, unsure as to what was about to occur but prepared for the best—and the worst. When both parties were finally present within, the figure moved, carefully, down the steps, now level with Loki, and stared at him with careful, questioning eyes.

"Agent Romanoff," he said.

Natasha stared back at him. "Surprised to see me?"

"Mildly."

"I want answers."

Loki snorted, smirking as he turned his face from her. "As do I." He turned his eyes back to her, the smirk falling to serious. "I did some research on your name on my way here. Since you informed me you _used_ to be Russian."

Natasha closed her eyes and turned, pacing back and forth in place. "And?"

"I learned both Natasha and Romanoff are diminutives of a very _Russian_ name," he replied, his voice low and menacingly calm. "So, Agent Romanoff, what _is_ your real name?"

Natasha chuckled, dryly, crossing her arms over her chest, and staring, calculatingly, at her feet. Finally, she glanced up at him, unwilling to give in to him so easily. "Natalia."

Loki's eyes narrowed, impatiently. "What _more_ than that?"

Natasha pursed her lips, her arms sliding down, hands resting on her hips, before she turned her body to face his, resting her weight on one side of her body, tilting her head at him. She smirked, bitterly. "You're grasping for straws."

"_Tell me_."

Her eyes narrowed, and she studied him—the girl made him anxious. He was making connections in his mind, she could tell. Between herself and Anastasia. She couldn't deny she was as well. It unnerved her how familiar the name Anastasia felt in her mind and in her heart.

Gathering her thoughts, she finally answered: "Romanova."

She saw the physical change in him. His shoulders slumped, his face contorted in pain and he turned at the torso to face away from her—to hide his pain and uncertainty from her.

It was then she heard it—it was a mere whisper but in the silence of the Tower, she heard it clear as day.

His voice, as smooth as silk, and pained, murmuring: "_Malenkaya_."

How? How could he _possibly_ know that name—the name that the child in her mind had been calling her since she _herself_ was a child? The name that had haunted her mind for _decades_ right there next to-

"Lukas," she said without filter. It had just spilled out.

Loki's head snapped around and he looked at her. "_What_ did you just say?"

"I could ask you the same," she replied.

Loki approached her, cautiously, dropping his spear to the floor. His whole body was running on instinct now. He hadn't heard that name in nearly a century, but it spilled, so easily, from the mouth of the woman in front of him and made his heart swell. It was _impossible_ for anyone to know it. Anyone but...

"_Malenkaya_," he whispered again, reaching out, touching her cheek, gently. "It can't be... I watched you die...I saw..."

Then, a thought occurred. One that hadn't occurred to him since the strange familiarity between them began. Carefully, he pushed the short, red curls away from her temple, and his green eyes widened. There, faded and discolored, was a scar—a scar left behind by the wound he had only superficially healed the night he believed her dead.

Tears filled the emerald orbs, and slid down his face. He stepped back from her, and the clear conflict on his face spoke volumes.

"It's you," he murmured, his voice wet with the unshed rivulets. "You're alive."

Natasha opened her mouth to reply—but the next turn of events countered her, as bullets rained through the windows of Stark Tower from the Quinjet that appeared outside. Natasha, remembering her end of the plan, leaped and dove behind Tony's bar. And as Loki stood, distracted by the jet's rain of gunfire, she grabbed the two bracelets that sat, hidden, on the bar. Peeking out over the bar, she noticed Loki's discarded spear and then glanced at the bracelets.

Noticing Tony rushing toward her from the platform, she tossed the bracelets to him, the whole moment seeming to move in slow motion. Tony caught them, snapped them on and immediately, the Quinjet departed. Natasha, finding a clear opening, dove back over the bar as a second Iron Man suit shot from within the wall as Tony entered the Tower.

Natasha tumbled and slid across the floor, grabbing the spear as the barely scathed god of Mischief reached for it. Sliding into a standing position, she watched as Iron Man tackled Loki, both men careening out of the bullet-ridden windows.

It was then she heard the rumble above her—the rumble of the machine kicking into high-gear. On the roof, Selvig watched as a stream of blue light ripped the sky open and a mass of shrieking aliens came rushing through.

Natasha rushed out of the Tower, just in time to see Iron Man lift Loki by the neck into the air above her—level with the machine on the roof—and then drop him. She gasped, suddenly, as he tumbled toward the New York street below, and the part of her that was beginning to realize exactly who she was—who she _used_ to be—wished for someone to save him.

Thor rushed through the sky, hammer first, and knocked Loki back onto the platform just below her. She breathed a sigh of relief despite herself. Until a Chitauri rushed by her on his speeder, moving at the speed of a jet-plane, stirring up a gust of wind, and disturbing her balance. Her grip on the spear was compromised, and she dropped it, stumbling, stumbling, stumbling.

And then, she fell.

* * *

Loki groaned as he pushed himself up on his hands, most of his weight resting on palms and knees as he tried to shake the dizzying effects of Thor's assault from his head. When the blurred vision finally subsided, he noticed Thor already moving into a standing position, Mjolnir grasped tightly in his hand.

"Why did you not let me die?" choked Loki as he stood. "I would have died in much the same way I just tried to kill you. It would have been _fair_."

Thor noticed a change in Loki's attitude—in his demeanor. He was unsure as to what just happened but he knew something had changed. "Because you are my brother. And no matter that travesties you commit against me or anyone else, that will never change. I will always _try_ to save you—even from yourself."

Loki's eyes hardened as he turned them on Thor, his whole body shaking with rage. "I did not _ask_ for your salvation! Nor do I want it!" He rushed him, despite being weaponless, and grabbed him by his cape, swinging him around and into the window behind him, the glass cracking and shattering.

He looked down on him with eyes swimming in uncertainty and pain. "Did you _know_?"

Thor, his hand firmly grasping Mjolnir in case he needed to fight back, furrowed his brow. "Know _what_?"

"That she was alive!" cried Loki, tears now falling down his face. "Did you know that Anastasia was alive?"

Thor's blue eyes grew wide as saucers and he shook his head, slowly. "No. It isn't possible. You said you watched her die. You saw her die. How could she be—"

"Natalia Romanova," breathed Loki. "_Romanova_. She is Anastasia. She has the scar where she was wounded—potentially killed. And now, it makes so much sense...she looks _so_ like my _malenkaya_ would have if she'd lived."

"_Malenkaya_?" Thor asked, not understanding the language or the word.

Loki threw Thor down to the ground and turned from him, massaging his throbbing forehead. "Everything has changed, Thor. She fights for your side. She fights _against_ me. And she remembers _nothing_ but bits and pieces."

Thor stood, dropping Mjolnir.

"I've alienated myself from her," Loki said, finally, a fearful sadness falling over his face. "Made myself a monster—a villain. I thought I was doing this, at least in partiality, for her. For her memory. But perhaps I-"

He looked at Thor, and then up at the sky as a Chitauri speeder whizzed by, joining it's compatriots as blasts of blue power and the cry of war spilled out into the city. He could hear the shrieking of frightened civilians and see the crumble of the buildings around him. Suddenly, as he remembered Anastasia's smile, and Natasha's beautiful strength—and need to make things right in her world—he realized that he had let so much of his sadness, anger and jealousy fuel a fire that should never have been fanned. He turned his eyes to Thor again.

"There's no way to stop it, now," he breathed, a deep well of regret rising up in his heart.

"No, Brother," Thor said, approaching him. "We can. Together."

Loki looked, deeply into Thor's eyes, realized that even now, even despite the devastation he'd caused that Thor still loved him, and he opened his mouth to answer, when he saw her just over Thor's shoulder.

Natasha.

Falling.

Falling fast.

"Thor!" he cried, pushing past him and rushing to the side of the building to look over. Their eyes met for only an instant before Loki turned and looked at his brother. "I cannot fly. You have to save her. You _must_."

"Loki-"

"Look," Loki said, approaching him. "I will...I will..._find a way_ to fix this—to close the portal. I will even help your silly mortal humans stop the Chitauri that have already broken through. But you _must_ save her. _Please_."

Thor looked torn—unsure if he could trust Loki's judgment. Something had certainly changed in Loki's mind and heart but was it enough? Finally, he met Loki's eyes with his own, and the _need_ painted on the pale, chiseled features broke Thor's heart. "Brother..."

"Please, Thor. I cannot lose her again."

Thor glanced over the side of the building, and then looked at Loki. He was still uncertain, but he set his jaw with determination and nodded. If anyone was willing to take a step of faith for Loki, it would be him. He had _always_ had faith in Loki.

He stepped to the edge of the building and began to swim Mjolnir around. Glancing back at Loki, he murmured, "Do not let me down, Brother. I'm counting on you."

"Just save her," Loki practically begged.

With one final nod, Thor left Loki to his promises—empty or no, he wasn't sure

And he dove.

* * *

"Let no despise your youth, but be an example to the believers in word, in conduct, in love, in spirit, in truth, in purity." 1 Timothy 4:12

_Please _review.


	11. Chapter 10

_Warning to loyal readers:_ I'm going on a mini-vacation with my roommate which might keep my from updating for a few days. My laptop, due to some strange circumstances, is hard to transport from one house to another. I'm going to try to rectify that but if I can't, I'm sorry.

Please enjoy _Malenkaya_

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I do this purely for my own and others enjoyment.

* * *

Chapter 10

* * *

_Star Tower – Manhattan, New York_

* * *

Loki had to reach the machine. The only way to end this was to find a way to turn it off. He could hear the devastation happening on the streets—devastation caused by the Chitauri who had already broken through. He suddenly wondered why he had agreed to this—it all seemed so pointless now. His _malenkaya _was alive, she _barely_ remembered him, and he had veritably alienated himself from her heart simply by enacting the selfish musings of a vengeful heart, disguised by good intentions and a need to avenge her.

So, now, he had only one option—he had to do the right thing. Not right in his own mind, but _actually_ right. For once, he had to _try_ to be the hero.

_Silly Lukas_, the young Anastasia giggled within his mind. _You _are_ my hero. _

Leaping onto the top platform of Stark Tower, where the Iron Man suit was removed by Natasha moments before, he noted his discarded spear and picked it up. The rush of power from the Tesseract-fueled weapon moved through him, making him, for a moment, falter in his new-found conscience.

The Other's voice filled his mind with poison.

"_...know this, that if you fail...if the Tesseract is _kept _from us...there is no realm, no barren moon, no _crevice_ where he cannot find you..."_

Loki gripped the spear so tightly that he thought he might break it in half as the voice continued, menacing and cold:

"_...you think you know pain? He'll make you _long_ for something sweet as _pain_!"_

He jerked, falling to one knee as he remembered the icy burn of the Other's six-fingered touch on his face, and he swallowed. Suddenly, his resolve was shaken and he glanced at the spear. Then, he heard the loud crash of bodies hitting the ground, and he glanced over the edge of the building

Down—way down—on ground below, Thor lay, unconscious, as Natasha, shuddering and dizzy, rolled off of him, a Chitauri blaster spear in her hands. Thor had a deep, cauterized wound sliced across his chest, and Loki noted that seconds after their landing, a dead Chitauri fell next to them just a few feet away.

Clearly, during Thor's descent, he had caught Natasha—and then been attacked. His control over his flight pattern had been disrupted, and, in his selflessness—and perhaps his love for a brother he believed in—he had twisted his body around to block Natasha's from damage. And it appeared she had returned the favor by killing the assaulting Chitauri mid-air and taking his weapon.

She turned her eyes upward, as if she felt his eyes on her even from so far away, and even from stories below, he could tell that her expression begged his assistance—the part of her heart where Anastasia was preserved pleaded for the strength of character she knew he once had to reemerge.

His green eyes slid from her to Thor, laying unconscious, having practically sacrificed himself for someone Loki loved—who would have sacrificed himself for Loki just as easily. Swallowing, he watched as Natasha turned her attention to the Chitauri approaching Thor's unmoving body, and fought then off with the spear and her own _specific skill set_ and he wished her could apologize for abandoning her—for leaving her there, presumably dead, for some madman to find and condition her for his ugly purposes.

Barton really _had_ told him everything.

That thought was enough. He brushed all of the fear of the Other and his master from his body, and, channeling the strength of his unconscious brother, and the little girl he had loved who'd grown to fight for herself and her own redemption, he rushed back inside the broken, shattered remnants of the Stark Tower lounge. He paused, moved to the elevator and pried the doors open with his own, Asgardian strength. Stepping in, his hands gripping his spear, he looked around. He knew very little of these mortal devices, but as he glanced up, he noticed the hatch at the top of the compartment—the escape hatch that every elevator had whether _he_ knew that or not. Knocking it open with his spear, he jumped up and balanced himself atop the elevator car. Then, he saw the ladder.

Grabbing the nearest rung he could reach, he began to climb, utilizing all of his AEsir strength to make his way up the long, straight ladder to the top floor. It was a empty, maintenance floor that sat just below the flat-topped roof where Selvig's machine was churning. Glancing out the dirty windows at the picture of Manhattan before him, he let a stray tear fall down his pale face.

_I'm so sorry, _malenkaya_, that I let it come this far._

Turning his attention from the scene, he pivoted on his heel and made his way to the door opposite of him. Prying it open, he stepped out, glanced around to see if any rogue Chitauri were gunning for him, and then climbed onto the roof where Selvig was.

The man turned to him, and offered a shaky grin. "It's happening, sir. A new world—a new universe!"

"We need to shut it down, Dr. Selvig," Loki said, approaching him. "It's over!"

Selvig's eyes widened. "What? But-"

"Forgive me," Loki mumbled and then swung his spear around, allowing it to connect, hard, with Selvig's face as he watched the man tumble to the graveled ground below (and Loki had to wonder why Tony had gravel on his roof), unconscious.

Approaching the machine, he reached out, retracting his hand immediately when the barrier around it restricted him from dislodging the Tesseract. He glanced at Selvig, knowing that he was the only one who'd know how to turn it off.

All he could do now was wait.

* * *

_Helicarrier_

* * *

"_We've made our decision, Director."_

"I know you've made your decision but since it's a stupid-ass decision, I've elected to ignore it!" growled Fury. How could they even _fathom_ sending a nuke toward a civilian population? Alien invasion or not, he was not about to end the lives of every person living in Manhattan because a bunch of stiff-collared, apathetic suits thought it was the most _expeditious _solution.

Of course, Nick Fury didn't always get what he wanted, and as Hill began to shout about an unauthorized take-off, he realized this was one of those times. Rushing off of the bridge, he grabbed a bazooka from a nearby weapons room and rushed out onto the flight deck, weapon in hand. Blasting the wing off of the only moving plane he could see, he realized that those stiff-collared suits weren't as stupid as he wished they were.

The first plane was a diversion. The second was already in the air.

Entering back onto the Helicarrier's deck, Fury pressed the comm in his ear and barked, "Stark? You hear me? You've got a _nuke_ heading for the city."

"_How long?!"_

"Minutes! You get this under control, you hear me?!" _Prove them all wrong._

* * *

_Manhattan, New York_

* * *

Thor had awoken several minutes later to find Natasha, on her knees, the Chitauri spear the only shield between her and the alien who was slamming his own weapon down onto the metal, repeatedly. Shaking the fuzz from his eyes, he called Mjolnir to him and swung it upward, hard, into the Chitauri's face, sending him careening backwards away from Natasha.

Standing, he offered her his hand, which she took gratefully.

"Are you well, Lady Natasha?" he asked.

She nodded, jumping a little when Stark whizzed by overhead, flying toward the bridge that led into the city. Glancing down each city block and overhead, she noticed the fighting, the running, the _fear_ and war and devastation all around and frowned. It seemed that Steve and Tony and Clint had contained much of the problem to within just a few blocks but still...

"None of this is going to mean a damn thing if we can't close that portal," she said, off-handedly, to Thor.

"Loki is attempting that very feat as we speak," Thor replied, glancing up the side of Stark Tower, trying to discern if his brother had made it to the roof or not.

Natasha's brow furrowed, confusion painting her expression. "Why? Why would he do that? Why would he help us?"

Thor twisted his head back to rights from its craned position, looking at her with poignant blue eyes. "Because of you."

* * *

Selvig stirred from his unconscious state, his eyes popping open one by one as a muted dizziness swirled in his mind. He sat up, carefully, shaking his head to try and clear the haze, and gripped his cheek where a large, bruised welt was forming. Glancing up, he shuffled back in the gravel in fear—shuffled away from Loki.

"Don't—don't come near me!" he said.

Loki ignored the empty command and took a few, firm steps toward him. Kneeling, he got on eye level with the man, green eyes narrowed. "Listen, mortal, I don't particularly care what you think or believe about me at this point. I only have one purpose at this point and it is turning off _that_ machine."

Selvig's brow knit together, an incredulous face falling over his features. "Why? Why would you want that when all you wanted, when all you _craved_ was hurting the people and world your brother loved? Why would it change now?"

"You understand very little, human," growled Loki. "There is more to me than what you believe. But I will not argue the purpose of my existence to you now, nor ever. Just _tell me_ how to turn off the machine!"

Selvig opened his mouth to answer, when both men were, immediately, distracted by a Chitauri speeder overhead. Loki flew into an offensive position, spear at the ready, when his stance relaxed as Natasha dropped from the vehicle onto the roof next to them, the speeder careening off into the side of a building and exploding.

She looked at Loki, her eyes swimming with uncertainty, before she glanced at Dr. Selvig. "Dr. Selvig...are you yourself?"

A short, shaky nod.

"Is it _possible_ to turn off the machine?"

Selvig swallowed, glancing around. "You can't...you can't protect against yourself..."

"Don't do that, Dr. Selvig. It's not your fault. You didn't know what you were doing," Natasha murmured.

"No," Loki said, suddenly, his eyes falling to his spear. "That's not what he means. The Tesseract—it can't protect against..."

"_Itself,_" both Natasha and Loki finished in unison. Her eyes met his, and a picture of a little girl and a little boy, standing in the lush green of a beautiful garden labyrinth, smiling at one another, flashed before her mind's eye and she swallowed down a lump in her throat. She averted her gaze, turning them back to Selvig.

"His spear can close it?"

The physicist nodded. "I built in a fail-safe." He glanced, a little fearfully, at Loki. "Against his knowledge."

Natasha stood, holding her hand out to Loki. "Give it to me."

"What?" Loki asked. "I will close it. It's my mess—I should make the first steps toward fixing it."

"I don't trust you. And whatever or whoever you believe I am, I _never_ will," she replied, though her voice quavered over the words. "Give me the spear."

"Even if it takes the rest of my existence, _malenkaya_," Loki murmured, stepping toward her, his body mere inches from hers, their heads twisted so that each one's eyes gazed, defiantly, into the others, "I will show you that I am more than what you believe me to be. I will regain the strength of heart I had when I was younger. When I loved you."

Natasha's eyes narrowed. "_Love_ is for children."

"Yes," Loki replied. "And you were a child. _Only _a child. You never should have had to endure what you did." He turned, and shoved the spear, hard, through the barrier around the machine, causing the energy to jump. Loki pushed Natasha, harshly, away as it flung out, in protest, at being broken through, causing a flare of energy to whip Loki in the face, leaving a deep red welt on his cheek.

Natasha landed, hard, on the gravel a few feet away, tumbling over until she had stabilized her body on her knees, watching him with wide eyes, full of disbelief. He really _was_ helping them.

_Because of you_, Thor had said.

_Me? What's so special about me? _She wondered.

He turned his head to face her. "_Tell_ them! Tell them the portal can be closed!"

"What?" she shouted.

"Your _heroes_! Tell them!" Loki replied.

Natasha watched as the tip of the spear slunk closer and closer to the Tesseract, and she placed her finger to her ear, pressing firmly on her comm and barking, "We can close it! The portal!"

"_Do it!" _came Steve's voice, flittering into her ear frantically.

"_Wait! Don't!" _It was Tony.

"_What? Why?" _

"_I got a nuke coming for the city." _There was a rustle of sound—of metal whizzing past, of blasters making chase, of metal slamming into metal as Tony wrangled the nuke. _"And I know just where to put it."_

"_You know that's a one way trip, Stark."_

Natasha frowned, her heart pounding. Stark may have been the most annoying, idiotic genius she'd ever met but he was a friend._ Her _friend. Her hand whipped out, stretching her five fingers wide in a motion of pause. _Not _yet, the gesture said to Loki. _Just wait_.

"What in Odin's name am I _waiting_ for?" growled the Trickster, but all three sets of eyes on the roof flew upward as Iron Man whirred past, nuke pressed firmly to his back as he flew up, up, up.

Then, he disappeared inside the portal and Loki felt a great weight fall over him. He knew that Natasha could—and probably would—hate him for a long time for all of the destruction he'd caused to complete and total strangers. She would fight against forgiving him for an almost unyielding stretch for simply _using_ her friend, the Hawk. But if one of her own were to _die_ for any reason that he may have had even the slightest hand in, she felt that her perpetual unforgiveness toward him would be inevitable.

He would lose her forever. Glancing at her, he frowned, offering apologetic eyes.

But she was focused on the portal. "C'mon, Stark," she whispered.

"_Close it."_

Natasha turned her eyes on Loki, and began to move her fingers in a gesture of continuance to him, before she saw it. The gleam of red and gold—falling. And it was falling fast. She went to smile with relief, when she realized that it wasn't slowing down.

Loki noticed as well and pushed the spear, hard, into the Tesseract, closing the portal immediately as the nuke exploded, and the Chitauri flying around them and moving across and through the streets below them fell, lifeless. When that job was done, he let go of the spear and took a few, cautious steps back.

His eyes twisted to Natasha and he smiled a little. "I am sorry, _malenkaya_. For everything."

Then, pushing speed and energy through his muscles, he broke into a run from one end of the roof to the other, and dove off. He knew he couldn't fly, but he hoped that he had calculated and timed this endeavor correctly. Spreading his body out flat, he pushed his arms completely forward and Natasha, watching the moment as if in slow motion, witnessed as Loki's body slammed into the falling Iron Man suit, and flew, based on momentum, across the street stories below, into the building just across from Star Tower.

The windows shattered, the two men tumbled across the floor of the already abandoned building and Loki, coughing from the air he'd knocked out of himself—and the bruised ribs he'd inevitably caused within his body—rolled onto his hands and knees and glanced at the Iron Man. He was unmoving.

_No. __**No**__. Wake up, you stupid mortal! _Loki pulled the mask off of the front of the suit and looked down at the dirty, pale face of the man inside. Green eyes widened as he began to realize that the man was more likely than not dead, and he began to panic.

That was when a flash of angry green tore across the sky and into the building next to them. Loki scrambled backwards on the floor as the Hulk, who had been, until now, helping Hawkeye and Thor contain the aliens in the air, while Captain America contained the problems on the ground, paused in front of him.

Growling, he stomped, quickly, toward the demi-god. Loki, immediately, threw up his hands and opened his mouth to speak: "_Enough_! I'm not your enemy any long—oof!"

It was too late. He'd already pissed the creature off—and he wondered if someone he knew he had wanted to use him for ill earlier in his planning. Grabbing him by the leg, the Hulk flung Loki over his head, once, twice, three times, each time slamming the _puny_ god into the ground, before he tossed him down, hard, onto his back.

Loki lay, battered and beaten, eyes wide, in a crater on the floor right next to the unmoving Iron Man. A whimper of pain left his lips, followed by an enormous roar from the Hulk.

The sound coursed through Tony, causing the man to jerk awake, suddenly, gasping. "Oh! _What the hell_! What happened?" He looked around, noting Loki laying next to him in a crater and the Hulk looking down at him, snuffing proudly.

Sitting up, he glanced through the broken windows a few feet away and noticed Natasha and Selvig looking, intensely, at them from the Stark Tower roof. Natasha was definitely trying to communicate something, shouting from the roof across from them, but he couldn't distinguish.

Standing, shakily, he looked down at Loki. "Well...okay, then. Are we done?"

Loki nodded, stiffly.

"Good." He let out a big, long sigh. "Good."

* * *

_Helicarrier_

* * *

"So, you're telling me that _Loki _saved me from dying?" Tony asked as he placed the greasy bag of shawarmas on the Helicarrier's bridge de-briefing table. Fury glared at him from a few feet away as he watched the grease seep through the bag onto the shining black table below.

Thor reached out with his beefy hands and pulled one of the shawarma from the bag, looking a little too excited to try the tasty treat for someone who knew nothing about Midgardian food. As he lifted the meaty meal to his mouth, he paused, noticing the deadpan looks he was getting from the rest of the group. He blushed, sheepishly.

"Um, well," he murmured, setting his food down. "Yes. It is true. My brother was the one who kept you from falling to your death."

"And," Natasha murmured, pulling her own food from the bag, though she had had the sense to grab plates for each of them which she passed out. "He closed the portal too."

"Where did you get a bunch of plates?" Tony asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Kitchen. Deck 6," Natasha replied. "You're not the only one thinks ahead, Stark."

"So, Loki closed the portal and saved Stark," Clint said, munching on a french fry he fished out of the bottom of the bag. "So what? He's the one who caused all of this."

"Excuse me, son of Barton," Thor snapped. "But his actions clearly show that he has had a change of heart. You will have care how you speak of him."

"The real question is," Steve finally chimed, as he handed Bruce a shawarma and took one for himself. "How do we proceed?"

There was a pregnant silence, before Thor, without taking a single bite, set his meal down again and murmured, "Despite my trepidations with his words, son of Barton is correct. Loki was the cause of this, despite his vital assistance in stopping it. As much as it pains me to do so, I must take him home—he has to face Asgardian justice."

Fury grabbed his shawarma from the bag, harshly, standing over them, and then, taking a big bite from the food in his hands, he replied, "Then he's all yours, big guy. Do me a favor—don't let him back on my planet ever again, huh?"

Thor's looked crestfallen but he nodded, silently.

Natasha glanced at him, before turning her eyes to the bag. There was still one shawarma left. Frowning, she glanced at Tony, who looked away quickly and whistled, before biting into his food. Standing, Natasha picked up the bag.

"I'll be back," she said, and then disappeared into the elevator.

* * *

_Why did Odin never tell me she was alive? Did he know? Did Heimdall? Why would they keep such vital information from me? Did they think they were protecting me?_

_Then, again, the Allfather has never been good at offering truths to me under the excuse of _protection_._

Loki opened his eyes when he heard the sound of the automated door sliding open on its track. He wasn't sure where Fury had gotten a new glass cell to place him in after his unceremonious dropping of Thor in the last one, but here he sat, in a similar glass prison as the last, waiting for his sentence to be announced. Turning his head to spot the person coming through the door, he was shocked and relieved to find it was Natasha.

He said nothing, merely averted his gaze from her and looked down at his boots, regretfully.

"Hello," she said, her voice tight and awkward.

Loki smirked, bitterly and nodded his acknowledgment of her presence.

"I, uh, I brought you some food," she said, and he turned his face, immediately, to her at the sound of the word _food_. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten and he was _hungry_.

"Why?" he asked, his eyes barely meeting hers.

"Because Tony bought some for you."

A half-hearted chuckle bubbled up from his throat. "Did he? How generous."

"Well, I guess it's the least he could've done since you saved his life. That's not stopping Thor from bringing you home though. He says you still need to face punishment for what you unleashed." Natasha replied. She approached the cage, stopping just inches from the glass. "Out of curiosity...why _did_ you save his life?"

Odin's voice from the past rang true in his memory. _Why were you so keen on saving them? _

_Because_. "Because," he began, feeling the shuddering sense of deja vu bubble up in his heart. _They mattered to her. _"He meant something...to you."

Natasha closed her eyes, tightly, and shook her head. "Shut up. _Shut up_. I'm _not_ who you think I am," she snapped. "Stop _telling_ me you did it for me—because of me. You don't even _know_ me."

"You're wrong," Loki replied. "And if you truly believed that...you would have let Thor bring me that." He pointed to the bag in her hand. "You came here looking for something. Answers, _malenkaya_? Is that what you want?"

Natasha leaned forward, leaning her forehead against the cool glass, the fuzzy memories of a past she had never remembered since the time Ivan had "adopted" her flitting to and fro in her mind, trying to jostle themselves through into her conscious mind. A few stray tears trickled down her face and she hated herself. She hadn't cried in years—_decades—_and here this man was telling her she was something she clearly was not, and never had been.

A duchess. A _princess_.

Opening her eyes, she jumped back to find Loki had pressed his forehead to the glass on the other side, and Loki laughed, genuinely, for the first time in a long time. "I was always better at tricking you, _malenkaya_."

"Stop calling me that," growled the shaken Black Widow, glaring at him. "Stop _all_ of it. I don't know you. We've _never_ been friends and we _never _will be. You're a _villain_ and a criminal and I could _never_ love you."

_When you're bigger and I'm bigger...would you marry me_?

Natasha gasped at the sound of a small girl's voice in her head, followed by the face of a boy child, with slicked black hair and green eyes. Loki's eyes. _Lukas_' eyes.

She stumbled backward into the seat she'd placed herself in when she'd told Loki her story the first time. Tears were streaming down her cheeks in waves now as she gripped her throbbing forehead. "What's going on? These memories...who _am_ I?"

She looked up at him, desperately.

"Who _am_ I?"

Loki smiled, sadly. "Someone far stronger than I ever was. Someone I have loved for decades—for nearly a century. And someone who I know could never love me in return—not now, not after all I've done." He turned from her. "I will return to Asgard if that is Thor's wish. I will face my punishment."

"Fury says you're not to come back to Earth. Ever."

The sad smile spread, and quivered, no less sad, or half-hearted. "Then I will face that as well." _Even if it means I never get to see you again._

Natasha swallowed and stood again. Pressing her hand to the glass, timidly, she murmured, "Before you go," she said, sounding unsure and frightened. "Tell me...tell me about Anastasia."

Loki's brow furrowed, but his painful smile never faltered. He turned his eyes to her, and then, gesturing that she sit again, he did the same, murmuring, "...it would be my pleasure."

* * *

_Central Park – New York_

* * *

They all stood, quietly, around the circle of brick and stone where they'd decided to convene. Today was the day that Thor was returning home to Asgard, Loki in tow. Because of the danger of his silver tongue, Loki's mouth had been bound, though he had no desire to tell lies and manipulations at the moment.

Carefully, quietly, Thor pulled Loki to the center of the circle and stood with him. He glanced at his brother, offering an apologetic gaze to him. To Thor, Loki had redeemed himself and then some. He had closed the portal and saved one of Thor's friends. However, Thor would have forgiven Loki either way—it was his nature, and he loved his brother.

He watched as Loki twisted his head on his neck, his green eyes meeting Natasha's blue ones. He wanted to stay, Thor could tell. For her. For Anastasia. But despite having told Natasha the whole story of their friendship, she still barely believed. Thor and Loki both knew it would take time for the memories to completely reemerge. If they ever did.

And Loki realized, not for the first time in the last day or so, that he would probably never see her again as it was. It was probably better if she never remembered—it would be too painful for the both of them.

Thor turned his head as Bruce approached with the device containing the Tesseract. He took it, carefully, from the man and offered the other end of it to Loki. With some reluctance and hesitation, Loki took it and then turned his gaze to meet Thor's. The tiniest of affirmative expressions was shared between them.

Allowing himself to look at Natasha one last time, he felt a twinge of jealousy at seeing her stand so close to Clint. However, if that was her choice, he would live with it. It isn't as if he had one of his own. According her a gentle, loving gaze, apologetic and poignant, he offered a small nod to her, before turning his countenance back to Thor.

Natasha, watching each of his expressions as they changed, full of emotion for each movement that one of them made, for each thought she was sure was swimming through his mind right now, had the strongest urge to rush forward and hug him. Tell him, even if it was a lie, that she remembered everything and beg him not to go. The part of her heart where the childlike Anastasia still lived allowed for such emotions. But the part of her conditioned by Ivan Petrovitch stood, unmoving, arms crossed across her chest, and kept her expression as hard as she could.

She failed, just a little, when his poignant stare met her eyes. She allowed a little pity to slip into her blue gaze, and she allowed one sympathetic thought to trickle into her mind: _I wish I could be to you what Clint was to me._

Then, Thor twisted the handle on the device.

It glowed.

It engulfed them both.

And then, they were gone.

* * *

"Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need." Hebrews 4:16

_Please_ review.


	12. Chapter 11

Without further ado, my faithful, loyal readers: _Malenkaya_

Disclaimer: I own nothing but a deep love for these characters.

* * *

Chapter 11

* * *

_Star Tower – New York City_

* * *

**Seven Months Later**

* * *

Natasha looked at herself in the vanity mirror of her new Stark Tower bathroom, a large room adjacent to her equally large bedroom and filled to the brim with all the amenities any woman would want in a bathroom—including a jacuzzi tub and a vanity that even a diva would die for.

Except Natasha didn't spend long periods of time in the mirror because she was some kind of diva. She sat, quietly, patiently, persistently, in front of the mirror, searching her own face for the answers which had haunted her for seven months. Answers to her past—to the past Ivan Petrovitch had stolen from her.

To the friendship the Bolshevik revolution had destroyed.

However, even in seven months, the memories barely peeked through the foggy veil of her subconscious mind, sparing her only bits and pieces of memories she could tell were thick with meaning—meaning to her. Meaning to _him_.

Loki.

There wasn't a _single day_ in the last seven months she hadn't thought or dreamed about him. The young Anastasia that lingered in her heart—the one that was so open and honest and willing to love—worried every day for whatever punishments and "justices" he had received, while the part of her that was fiercely conditioned by Ivan, and ferociously loyal to SHIELD _tried_ to care less.

But she couldn't. She couldn't just ignore that Loki had _gotten_ to her. Compromised her in such a profound and confusing way that she woke, sometimes, in a cold sweat imagining what had been done to him—what _Asgard_ had done to him.

She knew what it was like—to be guilty of crimes beyond description. Horrific feats and things one wished they could take back. She also knew the beautiful glory of a second chance. And the young Anastasia in her heart wanted nothing more than to give Loki a second chance.

_He's our Lukas, Natasha_, she would argue in a beautiful, childlike lilt of Russian that Natasha hadn't heard in so many long decades. _He loved us when it seemed no one else did. He was always there for us. Now we need to be there for him._

The voice was always so familiar. Her voice. And yet, not. She hated feeling like such a divided person—split down the middle by a past she barely remembered and a present that she struggled with. What she really wanted to know, though, if she were honest with herself, was why Loki had decided to become her friend in the first place. She could only imagine that he'd already been centuries—perhaps even millenia—old when he had decided to wander down into 1900s Russia one day and befriend a lonely child. Why?

What had he seen in her that no one else had?

Scoffing at her reflection in the mirror, Natasha stood in a huff and wandered out of the bathroom into her massive bedroom. Closing her eyes, she tried to push the images of Loki's eyes in those last few moments before Thor had turned the lever on the Tesseract device out of her mind. But she couldn't. She couldn't forget how vulnerable he'd looked—or how much she had wanted to embrace him.

Growling, she stepped into her walk in closet and pulled some clothes off of the hangers for the day. Stepping back into the fullness of the room, she set the clothing down on the bed, and sighed. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself in a beautiful gown, draped in lush golds, reds and greens, and imagined what her life would be like if Loki's story was true and she had gotten to keep her life as a princess.

_Well,_ Anastasia's voice replied, _you'd be dead now. Or really old. And you wouldn't have the same life span as you do now._

Natasha's brow furrowed. _Which means..._

_You wouldn't be able to live a long life with Lukas,_ Anastasia finished.

Frowning, Natasha found the thought made her somber, pulling at the strings of her heart. Yet, she didn't understand why she should even care if she could live a life-span similar to Loki's. It was doubtful she would ever see Loki again as it was. So, why should it matter?

"_Agent Romanoff_," came a voice over an intercom speaker at the other end of the room. She glanced up to the find the glowing glass panel had lit up and a tremble of sound waves were moving inside the transparent screen as the voice spoke. JARVIS.

"Yes?"

"_Director Fury is requesting the presence of the Avengers on the Helicarrier, immediately. He has already deployed a Quinjet to pick you all up which will be arriving in 13 minutes precisely. The rest of the team is already on the roof, waiting._"

"Thank you, JARVIS," Natasha said as she changed, quickly, into the dark blue denim jeans she's picked out, as well as the black t-shirt with the wide 'U' neck-line and her black ankle-boots. Shrugging herself into a red leather jacket, she rushed out of her room, grabbing her guns and badge-keycard quickly as she left, her feet making quick work to the elevator and pressing the floor up.

Stark had, since the war, rebuilt his broken building, adding necessities like a Helipad for helicopters and Quinjets to land on, as well as extra facilities for training. His primary goal was to transform the space into Avengers central, and he'd done a damn fine job doing it, if he did say so himself. Which he did. Frequently.

Reaching the roof, she stepped out onto the Helipad and was met with the stairs of her friends, all wondering what had taken her so long. It was Clint, in fact, who looked the most worried. He had noticed her odd behavior of late and wondered if it had anything to do with all of the Russian history books she'd been poring over in the last seven months. He knew what she thought. She thought she was a lost Russian princess.

_The last person to claim that turned out to be a fake_, he had told her.

_Yeah, well, I don't think I am,_ she had replied.

_We can get a DNA comparison done_, Fury had offered.

_Let me think about it, _she had said. She was afraid. Of course, the DNA test would be the best solution. The most expedient. And it would be easy with the kinds of clearances that SHIELD had in every lab and secret society and conspiracy theorist sanctuary around the world. But she didn't know if she even _wanted_ to know for sure. What would it mean to her?

What would it mean if Loki was _right_?

Standing with her friends, arms crossed over her chest, stand-offishly, eyes training on the skies as the whir of engines came nearer, she could feel Clint's eyes on her. His always watchful, calculating eyes. She wondered if his ever-deductive eyes could calculate her—would calculate her—and exactly what she was thinking. Could he see Loki in her eyes—in her heart? Could he hear the voice of Anastasia speaking youthful Russian, or Lukas calling her _malenkaya_ in her dreams?

It frightened her to think he could. But as he watched her with eyes that offered him, so willingly, his code name, she began to believe that maybe, just maybe, he would begin to see exactly what she did, and it would destroy him.

* * *

_Helicarrier – Thirty Minutes Later_

* * *

Director Nick Fury stood with impatient stillness on the flight deck of the Helicarrier. Despite his calm exterior silence, and firm, crossed-arm steadiness, his good eye gleamed with subtle anxiety. He didn't like having to call the team in for any reason, but he needed to size up exactly who would be the best candidate for the next job that had, unceremoniously, been dropped into his lap.

As the Quinjet descended, landing, carefully, on deck and his dysfunctional heroes emerged, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. It wasn't as if what was being asked of him was actually in his jurisdiction, nor was it something he usually did. But the person who had asked for his help was hard to ignore.

As they approached him, Fury uncrossed his arms. "Took you long enough."

"Your jet, Fury. We're just along for the ride," replied Tony, glancing around. He looked nervous. Natasha didn't blame him. As Stark Tower was undergoing renovations to become Avenger central, Tony had returned to Los Angeles to try and recuperate from the aftermath of the war. Apparently, his recovery had not been perfect. However, when he'd returned, he was without an arc reactor in his chest, and an Iron Man suit in tow, and Natasha wondered if his goal was to even _be_ an Avenger anymore.

However, he lived in the Tower with them. Pepper visited often. And so, Natasha sat in wait to see how Tony's life would unfold post-war. Would he rejoin their team on the front lines, or would he stay behind the scenes? He certainly had the capacity for both.

Fury led them onto the Helicarrier's bridge and it didn't take Clint with his hawk-like eyes or Natasha with her deductive mind long to spot the two very out of place ladies sitting at the debriefing table just a few feet away—or to discern that both women were sitting across from Dr. Erik Selvig.

All three heads turned to them as they made their way up the few short steps to the small platform that the table rested on. It's shining surface, with touch LED screens built in, gleamed, black and reflective, mirroring the concern on the faces of those seated behind it.

Natasha furrowed her brow, immediately recognizing Dr. Selvig and one of the women sitting across from him—Jane Foster. That was her name.

"Sit down, ladies," Fury said to his team, and the younger woman sitting next to Jane snickered into her hand, as each of the Avengers slid into a free chair. Steve's blue eyes slid to her with curiosity at the sound.

"Ladies and gentleman," Fury murmured, dropping his sardonic attitude, "this is Dr. Jane Foster and her assistant, Darcy Lewis. I believe you already know Dr. Erik Selvig."

"Hello," Jane said, nodding to the group of them. She looked a little distraught, wringing her hands together under the table. Darcy glanced at her and frowned, deeply.

Fury paced around the table, hands tucked firmly behind his back as his one good eye slid back and forth over those accumulated at the table. Then, he glanced at Jane. She nodded. Turning his eyes to his team, he murmured, "Thor was recently here. On Earth."

Natasha's eyes widened, and Steve and Tony leaned toward each other, whispering, while Clint's eyes fell on Natasha's suddenly distant expression, and Bruce offered Jane a concerned gaze.

"What for?" he asked, tilting his head out of curiosity, a few dark brown curls falling into his eyes.

"I was attacked," Jane said, quickly. "By...um...I don't know. Something. They were pale—and they had strange eyes."

Fury frowned, clearly displeased by the idea of something _else_ attacking Earth so soon after the end of the war—and around the steady efforts of the clean-up. "Thor brought her here from New Mexico about an hour ago."

"Why isn't he here?" It was Natasha; she sounded almost desperate, and Clint knew there was more to the question then curiosity toward Thor's whereabouts.

"He told me that the attack meant something bigger than a few rebellious creatures wandering through worlds," Fury replied. "He seemed to recognize them—and he seems to think they mean big trouble. He returned to Asgard to speak to his dear ol' dad."

"Okay, so what's any of this gotta do with us?" Tony asked, leaning back in his chair, his head propped in his hand, his expression dull.

"Thor wants Jane to go to Asgard," Darcy chimed. "So he can keep a better eye on her."

"But," Erik added, "he's the crown prince of Asgard, and one of it's strongest warriors, according to the legends and his actions. So if there is a war coming, he'll likely be caught directly in the middle."

"Which means," Fury said finally, "that Thor won't _always_ be around to keep an eye on her. So he's requested that a few of _you_ accompany her to Asgard."

"Yeah," Darcy said, "and I told him I'm going too. I won't leave Jane alone."

Bruce looked at Dr. Selvig. "And you?"

"I'm not getting within 200 feet of-"

"_Stop,_" snapped Natasha, suddenly, and then her eyes widened and she blushed. She hadn't meant to do that—she hadn't meant to come to Loki's defense, and so vehemently. But the young Anastasia in her heart would not stand for any disrespect toward her Lukas. It was almost like living with a split personality—and it was getting harder to contain.

Clint's eyes were on Natasha, immediately, his brow furrowed with concern. It was getting worse—he could see it in her face. And if he wasn't careful, she would-

"I'll go," she said, immediately, and Clint stood, as if he were going to argue, or protest, but Fury's eye snapped to him, as if to tell him to _sit_. Clint had to wonder why. Why was Fury _okay_ with her going where _he_ was?

"Out of curiosity, why so eager to jump on the opportunity, Agent Romanoff?" Fury asked, raising his eyebrow at her with a knowing gaze.

_Because of Lukas_, Anastasia whispered in the stillness of her subconscious. Natasha's brow furrowed, her nose scrunching in hesitation and desperate confusion at the words.

Fury nodded in complete understanding. "Agent Romanoff, your shaky relationship with Asgard's resident meglomaniac leaves you as a liability to this mission," he murmured.

"_Thank_ you," Clint blurted, despite himself. Natasha tensed, ready to pounce in with her two cents.

"_However_, " Fury continued. "Thor asked for her by name. He thought Jane would be more comfortable with another woman—especially one who has the ability to protect her, and, for all intents and purposes, the same longevity an Asgardian would have."

Natasha relaxed in her chair, sinking against the backrest as she watched Fury's calculating expression. He glanced at her, and then continued: "Since she _is_ a kind of liability, however, I've decided to send another of you along with her. Just in case."

Clint jumped up again, opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off immediately by Fury's hand jutting forward, and his the octave of his voice raising as he said, "_And_ I've already chosen which of you." His eyes fell on Steve.

Steve frowned, his brow furrowing. "Me, sir?"

"You're the one most committed to duty, Captain. I believe you can keep this endeavor from falling apart—and you're loyal. Besides that," Fury paused, and then: "I need you two to learn to work together. If you're going to be a part of SHIELD outside of the Avengers, Cap, I need you to be able to work alongside my best agents."

Steve looked a little reluctant, but gave a small nod.

"Just out of curiosity, Popeye," Tony piped, looking at Fury, who seethed a little at the name, "_why_ did you call us all in here if you already knew who was going on this little Magic School Bifrost field-trip?"

Darcy had to hide another giggle behind her hand, as Fury gazed at Tony with one unimpressed eye. "Because I needed you _all_ to be aware of the situation—it could change at any time, and any one of you could be dragged into it. You needed to be debriefed."

"Yeah," Tony said, glancing away as if he had stopped carrying. "Okay, then."

Natasha rolled her eyes, and Bruce glanced at Tony with a small expression of amusement though he masked it well.

"If that's all, you're dismissed," Fury replied, and immediately, Clint approached Natasha.

"Tasha, you can't do this," he hissed, grabbing her arm a little roughly. "You can't put yourself within ten feet of his lies and deceptions. You've already been doubting yourself the past few months—thinking you're, what, some _lost Russian princess? _Come on, Tash."

Natasha yanked her arm from his grasp, glaring at him with firm blue eyes. "Shut up, Clint. I don't know _who_ I am, but I can tell not all of his words are lies. Thor even told me just before they returned to Asgard that Loki used to visit a little mortal girl around the time Anastasia would've lived."

"Yeah, maybe so," Clint agreed, "but that doesn't mean _you're her_. Anastasia _died_ with the rest of her family. Everyone who's ever known anything about her has accepted that. Even _Loki_ believed it was true."

"Then _why_ can I remember Lukas? Why do I hear Anastasia's voice in my head—in my _dreams_? Why, _why_ had I been hearing a boy child's voice calling me _malenkaya_ before Loki ever had?" The Russian word rolled off of her tongue as smooth as butter—natural and decadent.

Clint wanted to argue his point, but he knew she was right. Pursing his lips, tightly, he tried to come up with any reason to continue the discussion—to show her he was correct. But he had nothing. Finally, he stepped toward her, and opened his mouth: "Tasha, just-"

"Romanoff!"

Both heads turned to look at Fury, who was gesturing the woman over. Natasha gave a short nod, glanced at Clint with an expression that had _leave it alone_ written all over it, before she moved toward Fury with intentional steps.

"Yes, sir?"

Fury was holding a manila folder and, silently, he held it out to her.

She, gingerly, took the object, looking at it with confusion. "Sir?"

"I thought you might want to know before you see him."

Natasha's brow furrowed, and then realization dawned. With wide eyes, she looked up at the man and hissed, "You submitted my DNA without my consent?!"

"Look," Fury replied. "This whole ordeal has caused your work to slip the last seven months. Whatever I did or didn't do was for your own good. I already know the answer, Natasha—the question is, do _you_ want to know?"

Natasha wanted to be angry—_furious_, in fact—but the small part of her that begged for relief from the tension of now knowing and disbelief wanted to open the folder. Still, something told her it wasn't quite time. Swallowing, she glanced up at him again. "No. No, I don't."

Fury shrugged. "That's your choice. But keep that," he nodded to the folder, "in case you change your mind."

Without a word of affirmation of denial, Natasha offered him another hard look before turning on her heel and following her team out, the folder clutched, tightly, in her white-knuckled hand.

* * *

"Hey, so you're really Captain America, huh?"

Steve turned on the flight deck to look at the voice calling to him. Squinting because of the sun in his eyes, he discerned that the voice had eminated from Jane Foster's friend—Darcy—as she approached him, her eyes trained on the heroes entering the Quinjet as Natasha, just a few feet away, and Steve stayed behind. Her eyes focused on the distraught archer as his remained glued on Natasha. He was clearly saying something to the redhead—trying to convince her of something. With the peek of a folder sticking out from under her folded arms, she shook her head and, glancing back at Steve and Darcy briefly, allowed her eyes to watch, apathetically, as the Quinjet took the rest of her team away.

Steve shrugged a little as Darcy stopped next to him and nodded. "Yeah. I guess I am."

"That's pretty crazy. I mean, the whole 'you were frozen but still alive and then unfrozen' thing," she replied, her voice loud to be heard over the roar of the engines and sea around them. "Everything about our world must seem pretty new to you."

Steve offered another shrug. "Yes and no. This is pretty familiar—but other things...they throw me for a loop sometimes."

Darcy grinned and pulled her iPod out of her pocket, holding it out to him. "Ever used one?"

Steve glanced down at the object that rested in her palm before shaking his head, glancing up at her. "No, ma'am."

As the Quinjet flew toward the New York skyline in the distance, Darcy lowered her decibal level and replied, "I'll teach you, big guy. Believe me, you'll need to know how to use it around Thor and Jane—listening to them talk all mushy-face about Bifrosts and Einstein Golden-Gate Bridges and stuff...the fact that Thor can relate to the whole mystical magical side of science really gets that girl's gears grinding, let me tell you."

Steve's brow furrowed. "Excuse me?"

"Uh," Darcy said, raising an eyebrow at him, and then let out a small laugh. "Nevermind, big guy. Nevermind."

* * *

Natasha stalked back onto the bridge of the Helicarrier and paused. Her eyes moved to Jane, who sat in silent stillness at the debriefing table. She hadn't moved. Her hands were grasping something—it looked to be a photograph that had been folded and folded again, many times, judging by the small wrinkles that creased its photo stalk weighted paper. The SHIELD agent let her brow knit together in curiosity as she approached the woman, seating herself, carefully, across from her. She placed the folder in her fingers down in front of her, gently.

Jane let her brown eyes slide from the picture up to Natasha's face. She smiled, half-heartedly, and turned the picture around. It was a mish-mosh of colors and smoke—clouds that seemed to glow the color of fire and sunset—and right smack in the middle of the clouds was the shadow of a man—a person.

"Thor," Natasha murmured, remembering the cosmic event that Coulson had spoken about just before Loki's coming.

Jane nodded. "For a long time, I didn't think he was ever coming back. I didn't realize he had destroyed the Bifrost because of Loki."

She noted Natasha's _slight_ wince. Ignoring it, she pressed on. "...of course, I didn't expect that the next time I saw him, he'd be saving me from some mystical creature trying to kill me. Or that he'd dump me here and fly off and away from me again."

"He didn't dump you here," Natasha offered. "He knew you'd be safest here. He trusts us—we're his teammates. His friends."

"I could've left with him then and there," she replied. "If he knew he wanted me to come to Asgard, why didn't he just take me himself?"

_This is deeper than just Jane and Thor_, little Anastasia's voice murmured. _She's right. He could have just taken her. So why bring her here and ask for you?_

Natasha slid her eyes down to the tabletop beneath her hands, staring at the folder beneath her fingers, her brow furrowing. "I don't know," she said, as much to the child in her mind as to Jane.

Jane sighed and turned her head away, staring down at the other SHIELD employees as they skittered from one end of the bridge to the other, like diligent little worker ants.

_Thor's supposed to be a king someday, isn't he?_ The little voice continued. _So he has to think like a king—Papa always told us that to be king is to understand what is best for _all_. Thor isn't simply thinking of Jane's safety._

Natasha lifted her eyes, watching Jane, carefully, as the her own mind spoke in riddles to her, her brow tightly knit together.

_He's also thinking of Lukas_, Anastasia concluded, and Natasha's nose wrinkle with distaste.

_Oh, come now,_ the little voice continued. _You volunteered to go because of him_! _You know he's there and you miss him. You know exactly who is to you now and was to you then, because _I _do_. _You may believe that I'm some disembodied voice or dual personality, but you forget..._

The muscles in Natasha's jaw tightened. The voice finished: _...I'm _you_._

"_Ugh_," Natasha huffed as she stood, slamming her palms down on the table. Jane jumped, suddenly, her eyes turning to Natasha in confusion.

"Agent Romanoff?" she asked, gently.

_Thor asked for me so he could get me close to Loki_, she realized, her lip curling a little in anger. _He's trying to use me to redeem that-_!

She couldn't finish the thought. She had found in the last seven months she couldn't bring herself to have any poor thoughts toward Loki. She knew so little of him, to be honest, that in understanding her own story, she realized that the pain and anger Loki had felt—the destruction he had reaped—might have been more than simply evil intent. And now that her mind was beginning to fill in the gaps of her past, and the part of her heart that harbored Anastasia's great love for Lukas was beginning to reshape itself, she _did_ want to see Loki—to learn who he was. She didn't need him to tell her about herself—he already had before he left. Now, it was her turn to learn about him.

But the side of her heart that still held so much resentment toward him for his actions toward Clint, as well as a sense of duty to SHIELD and her world, didn't want to learn. Didn't want to try. She wanted to hate him, despise him. She wanted nothing to do with him. And yet, here was Thor, throwing them together again, under the guise of a mission. And she was certain that Thor truly did want someone who could care for Jane's safety when he couldn't—but she had learned how to read motives, been _trained_ in it all her life, so she could manipulate motives to her will, and her gut told her that there was more to do with _Loki_ in this request of her presence than simply a woman's companionship for Jane.

"Agent Romanoff. Dr. Foster."

Both women looked up to see Steve standing there, dressed in his red-white-and-blues. He was pulling his gloves on and adjusting his shield onto his back as he approached them. Natasha stood, frowning, her palm pressed down firmly on the folder beneath her fingers.

"What is it, Steve?"

"Fury says suit up. Gather what you need," Steve replied. "Thor just returned. It's time."

* * *

"Therefore, do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble." Matthew 6:34

_Please_ review.


	13. Chapter 12

I'm so sore from the gym. But it's okay, because I seriously want to get thin enough to look good in a Black Widow cosplay—flirt with all the fine Lokis. Teehee.

Here's _Malenkaya_

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

Chapter 12

* * *

It was like nothing Natasha had ever seen before.

Moving through the Bifrost was like being pushed through a pure cloud during sunset—it was warm and smooth, and the colors mixed and mingled before her eyes in strange, flowing succession, causing her whole body to melt against the heat of the bridge.

It was over in a matter of seconds, however, and soon, she was standing in a large, circular room, glowing a low, golden color.

In front of her, Darcy and Jane stood just behind Thor, and behind her, Steve's eyes traveled to and fro, taking in the alien sight as they moved, slowly, toward the dark-skinned man who stood between them and the solid pathway that made up the rest of the Bifrost—and the entrance into Asgard.

Heimdall turned, his ethereal eyes falling on his prince, and he gave a small bow. "I see you've returned, my prince."

"Yes, and I've come with visitors," Thor replied. Taking Jane's hand, he pulled her forward so that she was standing next to him. His hand slid around her waist and he smiled. "This is Jane Foster, Heimdall."

Heimdall nodded to her. "Pleased to meet you, madam. The queen will be pleased to meet you—she is most anxious to meet the woman her son has fallen so deeply for."

"_Heimdall_," Thor yelped as Jane blushed deeply. However, both shared a sheepish smile—one that spoke volumes toward the truth of Heimdall's words.

However, Heimdall was already preoccupied, his eyes wide as they focused on Natasha. "I have not focused my gaze on you since the night you perished."

Thor turned his head and allowed his eyes to fall on Natasha. The redhead, suddenly self-conscious, pressed a hand to her bosom, where the DNA paperwork was folded and tucked away in her bodysuit, still unread.

"I don't...understand..."

"I'm sure you will. In time," Heimdall replied and then his gaze seemed distant. "...the Allfather requests your presence, Thor. Yours and your guests."

Thor nodded. "Very well. But we must get my Midgardian friends into more proper attire."

"More proper what? Excuse me?" Natasha asked. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"Asgard is a place of honor and tradition," Thor replied. "To meet with the Allfather is a great honor, indeed. But your Midgardian garbs are very unlike anything that has ever been worn or looked upon on Asgard—though I highly doubt it would offend, it is still better safe than sorry. Do not worry, Lady Romanoff, I will ensure that you are garbed as that of Lady Sif—a woman warrior of the highest calibur!"

A thin red eyebrow slid up. "...I'm sure."

"Come along then, my friends! We shall depart to the palace and have you all attended to! Then, we shall meet with the Allfather," Thor replied, his hand tightening around Jane's. He whispered, "You will look most lovely in the dressings of an AEsir."

"And feel most silly, I get the feeling," Jane replied with a smile, following Thor down the colorfully glowing road.

* * *

"Yep, I feel silly," Jane said half an hour later, as a few of the servant girls finished wrapping her in a dress of fine blue silk, the sleeves dangling to her thighs, the seams lined with beautiful silver embroidery. However, as they turned her to look in the mirror, she blushed.

"You think you feel silly. Hn."

Jane turned, immediately, and looked at Natasha, her eyes widening. Unlike Jane, she was dressed to be as much the warrior as Thor had promised, with tight-fitted black pants and boots made of the leather hide of some Asgardian animal, she was sure. Covering her bosom and torso was a red blouse, cut straght across just below her neck and then angled up onto her shoulders in an off-the-shoulder tank-style. Overlaying that, was a black leather corsetted vest, inlaid with black armor panels over the chest and torso, and down the back, and hanging off the bottom seam of the vest were slats of black armor that looped around to create an armored skirt well above her knees.

Jane was in awe of how beautiful and strong Natasha looked—perhaps more so like this than when she dawned her Black Widow costume. It was as if she had been made to dress so regally. "Wow. You look..."

"Stupid," Natasha replied, as the servants slid black armored bands onto her biceps and wrists, before pulling a few of her red curls, grown long in the last seven months, up, twisting them into a small braid that traveled down the back of her neck, sitting atop the rest of her loose, bouncing tendrils.

"Like a warrior princess," Jane finished. "It's amazing."

Natasha snorted. "Right. Now I'm Xena, apparently."

"Well, I, for one, love the treatment," came a third voice as Darcy moved into the light from where she was being tended too, her body draped in long, deep purple dress that was wrapped and hung around her body like a Chinese garb, sinched tightly at the waist by a high-waisted belt, then flowing out in a slim A-line at the bottom. The sleeves hugged her arms, tightly, the neck cut much like Natasha's, in a straight-line across her bosom, before curving up diagonally to meet the sleeves. Her hair was pulled into a smooth ponytail and a grin spread across her face when both women noticed that her iPod was tucked into the bosom of her dress and one earbud was resting in her ear.

"You're not seriously going to wear your iPod to meet the king of the gods, are you?" Jane asked, pracing her hands on her hips. "You must be out of your mind."

"Of course not! I just thought it'd be a cool juxtaposition, y'know? Modern meets classic," Darcy replied, grinning.

"Lady Natasha!"

Natasha turned to find one of the servant girls who had dressed her rushing toward her. She was carrying a leather belt—with her guns in it.

"Here," she said, holding it out to her. "Prince Thor had this commissioned for you. That you might still carry your Midgardian weapons. He knows you feel more comfortable when they are at your side."

"Oh," Natasha said and, gingerly, took the belt. "Thank you." Sliding it across her waist, she fastened it, and it hung, low against her hips, dangling diagonally across them. "Thank you very much."

The young woman bowed and then skittered away, and that was when Thor's great voice bellowed through the door: "Are you ladies properly dressed?"

"Yes!" Jane's voice replied and Thor came through the door a moment later. He noticed Darcy and Natasha first, and opened his mouth to speak, a great grin on his face, but then his deep blue orbs fell upon Jane, and all words were lost to him. His face fell to that of deep awe and he approached her, carefully, placing one of his burly hands, gently, on her shoulder, the other touching her cheek.

"You look marvelous," he murmured. "Like a queen."

"No...no way," Jane replied, laughing nervously to herself. "Not compared to Agent Romanoff. She looks like she was made for these kinds of clothes."

"Can we not?" Natasha snapped. There was a good reason that royal garments may have suited her—a reason she was not yet willing to accept. "Thor is complimenting you, Jane. You should take it."

"Yeah, besides..." Darcy began, "if you end up marrying him, you _could_ technically be a queen someday!"

"_Darcy_!" Jane hissed, blushing, before she glanced up at Thor. He was merely smiling, his hand sliding down her arm to take her fingers in his.

"Come," he murmured. "We will go now to meet my mother and father."

* * *

The throne room was ornate decorated, the walls covered in golds and silvers, etched beautifully with carvings of swirled designs and built on the strength of many magnificent columns—rows of columns—which all led to the front, where, up a small flight of steps, sat a throne of great beauty, tall and angular, and made of fine gold.

Atop the throne sat a man, wizened and gray, with an eyepatch that seemed to be held on his face by willpower alone. He held a long, lethal spear in one hand, and the hand of his wife, who stood, a beautiful figure of golds herself, next to him.

At the other end of the throne room stood Thor, surrounded by the Midgardian women and Steve—who pulled, uncomfortably, at the leather animal hide pants and heavy silver chest-plate that adorned his body and showed off the musculature of his arms (and legs) as well as the tanned skin of said arms in much a similar way as Thor.

"I feel very strange," mumbled Steve.

"But you look to be the proud warrior you are, my friend! That will bode very well with my father!" replied the AEsir prince. "Now, come."

Thor began to stride forward, holding himself up with an intentional kind of pride as he approached his father and mother. The rest of the group followed after him. They were amazed yet unsurprised when Thor's proud demeanor lessened and he humbled himself before his parents, pressing a fist to his heart and bowing.

"I am glad to find you've returned safely, my son," murmured Odin, nodding in acknowledgment to his son. "And to see your friends have also arrived in safety. Welcome, warriors and friends of Midgard, to our home here on Asgard."

The group mimicked Thor's gesture, bowing, with a fist to their hearts. Steve lifted his head. "We're honored to be welcomed into your realm, sir."

Odin offered a small smile. "What a respectful young man—the young soldier who has withstood the test of time."

Steve blushed a little, but smiled with a respectful nod. "Thank you, sir."

"And which of these, my son, is your Jane Foster?" questioned the woman to Odin's side—the beautiful goddess Frigga, her dark blonde curls falling in graceful waves over her shoulders, her golden gown hugging the curves of her body like a glove.

"That would be me, ma'am," Jane replied, hesitantly, a gazing at the king and queen, shyly. She wasn't usually a shy person but when meeting the gods and goddesses, one tended to be a little more reserved.

"Oh, and aren't you lovely?" Frigga said, pulling her hand from Odin's and making her way down the steps. With thin, elegant arms, she reached out, placing gentle fingers on her shoulders and smiling at her.

"Thank you," murmured Jane. "Not as lovely as you are, your majesty."

"Isn't she sweet?" Frigga replied, turning a beautiful smile to her son. Then, her eyes fell on Natasha and her soft smile turned to a curious one. Sliding her hands from Jane's shoulders, she moved to the beautiful red-head. Gently, she reached out and touched one lovely tendril of crimson.

"And you," Frigga murmured, and her blue eyes gleamed with an ethereal kind of power—for only a second—before fading to normal. "What was your name again, child?"

"Natasha, your highness. Natasha Romanoff," she replied, blushing a little, her whole body warm with an unfamiliar heat. There was something about the way this woman was looking at her—as if she knew something.

With the same curious smile, Frigga pulled away from her and moved back to her husband's side, placing her long, slender fingers atop his on the arm of the throne.

"Tonight, a feast is being prepared to honor your sacrifice," Odin began, "in coming here, leaving your own realm, to aid us in our endeavors against our enemies."

"Sir, we're only here for Miss Foster's protection," Natasha murmured.

"True," replied Frigga. "But even the smallest of actions can have the greatest effects. Your being here," her eyes were focused, solely, on Natasha, even as she continued with, "_all_ of you, means something. Something important."

Natasha turned her hesitant blue orbs from the queen's beautiful, kind, _knowing_ gaze. That was it—that was the odd sensation Natasha felt from the woman. A sense of...understanding. As if she knew everything Natasha had ever done or been—everything Natasha had ever felt. And she was mirroring all of it in those bright, ethereal eyes.

"It was good to meet all of you," Odin said, finally.

"Um, well, we haven't really introduced our-" Darcy began and then stopped, abruptly, when four pairs of eyes fell on her. She blushed, sheepishly.

Frigga giggled a little and then gestured someone in the back of the room forward. Silently, the Lady Sif moved forward from where she lingered in the shadows and smiled at them with a warrior's pride as she folded her hands, carefully, in front of her.

"The Lady Sif, our strongest and proudest warrior, will offer you all a tour of our lovely home while the feast is prepared," Odin murmured. "And my son and I discuss our next plan of action. Come, Thor."

He stood from his throne and Thor nodded. Turning, he offered Jane a small kiss on the cheek and then followed his father out of the throne room. His eyes met Sif's for a moment and he smiled at her, and as her eyes slid to Jane for a moment and back to him, she smirked in return, an eyebrow raised.

As Thor and Odin departed, Sif approached the remainder of the group and gave a small, respectful bow.

"Good evening, my queen," she said to Frigga and then turned to the group of them. "And good evening to you, Thor's honored guests. I am the Lady Sif."

"Lady Sif is the strongest of our warriors—and she fought long and hard to get there," Frigga murmured, smiling. "It took her quite some time to achieve such a title—especially for a woman—but she makes me proud to be of her gender. She has shown all of Asgard that a woman can conquer and thrive."

Sif's cheeks reddened only slightly as she smiled, warmly, at the queen. "Your words flatter me, majesty.

"She's a testament to her sex, I'm sure," mumbled Natasha, crossing her arms over her chest and glancing sideways. Sif cut her eyes, sharply, to the other woman.

"Excuse me? What was that?"

Frigga's eyes lit up. _I see now what he saw in her—what he _sees_ in her. _"Lady Sif, this is Agent Natasha Romanoff of SHIELD. She is here to monitor Dr. Foster when Thor cannot. She, like you, is also a...what was the phrase you used just now, Agent Romanoff? Ah...yes. A testament to her sex."

"Whether I wanted to be or not," grumbled Natasha, and then ran a hand through her curls and said, "The king said something about a tour."

With her eyes trained on Natasha for a moment, Sif nodded, before turning and coming face to face with Jane. "And you are?"

"Jane Foster," murmured Jane. "Thor's...uh..."

She glanced at Darcy and then Natasha, as if they would have a proper title for her. Both women averted their eyes, intending, intentionally, to stay out of the sudden tension that arose between Jane and the AEsir maid.

"Well, whatever!" Jane said, and laughed, nervously. "About that tour!"

"Yes, yes, of course," Sif said, narrowing her eyes at Jane a little before pushing through her and Natasha. "Come. This way."

As Jane and Darcy began to follow Sif through the throne room, Steve slid his fingers around Natasha's arm when she did the same, pausing her in her stride. Natasha's blue eyes turned to him.

"Fury wanted me to remind you," Steve began, his eyes earnest, "to keep your emotions in check. If anyone happens to Jane, we could lose our alliance with Thor and possibly Asgard. Got it?"

"I got it," Natasha snapped.

"That means with the locals too," Steve murmured and nodded toward Sif's back.

"I _got it_," she hissed and yanked her arm from his grasp, stalking forward to catch up with the other women. Steve watched her, let out a small sigh and then followed.

"Do you truly believe this will work, my son?" Odin asked as he led Thor through the palace, his spear clutched tightly in his hand, his single eye sliding to glance at his son. "Do you truly think she can convince him?"

"I do, Father," Thor replied, nodding, firmly.

"I do not fully condone this course of action, Thor," Odin murmured. "He was imprisoned for a reason. He has nearly opened our realms to war with Midgard. We have never been to war with Midgard. They are under our care."

"Father," Thor murmured. "I almost open our realms to war as well. And though I do not condone his actions, either, I understand them—to an extent. But you cannot deny that as Malekith's threats grow, the need for more experienced warriors grows as well. We _need_ him."

"Mind your tongue!" snapped Odin. "We know not yet if these threats are Malekith, for certain."

"Jane described her attackers as-"

"I understand that, my son," Odin cut him off. "However, we must err on the side of caution—we do not want to stir up a full-forced war on Svartalfheim unless we have the proper evidence that they are truly the culprits."

Thor's brow furrowed as he walked alongside his father, his gaze questioning and open to Odin's teaching.

Odin smiled a little, proud to see his son so open to learning—proud to see Thor grow as a man and heir to the throne. "A good king weighs all his options, carefully, before taking any action, Thor. He utilizes all parts of his mind and heart—intellect, justice and compassion—before he moves forward."

Thor nodded. "Of course, Father."

"As it is, my son," Odin murmured. "I find that you have utilized your heart most strongly in your current decision—but have you weighed the outcome with your mind? Have you tried to understand what your decision might unleash in terms of understanding and enacting justice?"

"Father," Thor murmured. "I understand his punishment is much earned, and very necessary. I want only to enlist his help in our current endeavors. When this threat has been eased..."

There was a pause, as Odin watched the emotions play on Thor's face—sadness, anger, betrayal, compassion, love, heartache.

"...I will return Loki directly to his cell to live out the rest of his punishment. Myself."

* * *

Asgard was more beautiful than any place they could have imagined—with it's swooping hillsides, beautifully lush foliage and skies that were painted perpetually with strokes of oranges and purples—a kind of forever sunset that moved across the stretching expanse like a river.

Sif took them into the palace courtyard, where rows and rows of roses and lilies grew across the the beautiful red and white brick walkways, and servants skittered to and fro in and out of the multiple palace entrances.

"This is the courtyard where many of the palace's festivals are held. As you can see, it's expansive, and on the occasions when the Allfather invites the townspeople, it can house thousands of them at a time." She glanced over her shoulder at the group and then turned down a long, sloping path that led into the Asgard's township.

As they moved down the path, past the palace, Natasha noticed a door that none of the servants seemed to use. It was hidden in the shade of the palace and out of sight of the naked eye. But not a trained eye like Natasha's. However, the servants each seemed to glance at it with hesitance and fear. They shuffled past the group—and the door—one by one, in a rush to take care of their duties, but never once did one open the door, despite seeming to know it was there. Natasha paused and pointed.

"Lady Sif, what's that door for?"

Sif paused and glanced back at her, before following the line of her arm toward the door. Her eyes narrowed to seething slits. "_That_ is of no importance. Please keep moving."

"But-"

"_Please,_" Sif snapped, "Keep. Moving."

Natasha's eyes narrowed in a mirror of Sif's, glaring heavily at the warrior woman before the group began to move down the path again. Only once did Natasha glance over her shoulder to look at the door, noting that a frightened young servant girl was opening it, one hand skillfully working at the complexly enchanted locks, the other balancing a tray of dull, bland food—bread, unseasoned meat and a dingy goblet of water. The serving was for only one.

Something rattled in Natasha's heart.

Letting go of the inkling for now, she allowed herself to be lead into Asgard's main township, staying at Jane's side, exclusively. It was a large city, nearly the size of and population of New York itself, Natasha would have guessed upon seeing it, but much more primitive in its clothing, it's trading and it's architecture. Natasha felt a small bubble of sentimentality grow within her—a warmth that spread across her body—upon seeing it and she frowned.

_It reminds me of home,_ murmured the small voice within her. _A more modest picture of life, like when we were a child._

Taking a deep breath, Natasha brushed Anastasia's voice from her head and looked around. Groups of women in long skirts and corsets brushed past them, carrying baskets full of eggs and bread, pulling children along. Men laughed and smiled as they played chess, flirted with the women working the marketplace booths, and talked for long hours about nothing. Children played in the market streets, kicking balls, playing tag and climbing the grips of trees that bloomed like a welcome shade over the streets.

It was like walking into a medieval fairytale, and the group of Midgardians were in awe.

"This is Asgard's central township," murmured Sif. "_These_ are the people the Allfather and Thor work everyday to protect. They are our livelihood and our brothers and sisters. They are _our_ people and we care for them."

"This place is beautiful," Jane whispered, awed. "It's like a world pulled straight from a dream."

"Memorize this place, Jane Foster," Sif murmured as she picked up an apple from a stand and offered the vendor a coin of some sort in payment. "If you are truly as the queen believes you are to Thor, this could all be a realm under your care someday."

"Excuse me?" Jane asked, blinking.

"Well, if Thor is truly as deeply smitten by you as we believe he is, it is only a matter of time before he asks for your hand," Sif replied. "And he is the first—the only—son in line for the throne."

Natasha's brow furrowed at the correction Sif made in her words. _The only son? _

_How easily they're willing to erase Lukas, _Anastasia's voice chimed.

_He's _not_ Lukas, _Natasha snapped in reply. _He's a meglomaniacal monster. And his name is Loki._

_That's true,_ Anastasia replied. _But somewhere in there, _our _Lukas still lives. He saved Tony Stark's life. He closed the portal. He helped with the clean-up._

Natasha growled to herself.

_And_, the voice continued_, you were sad to see him go._

"I'd like to stop!" Natasha snapped to the group, gripping her head. "I—I need to sit down. Please, I just need a rest."

Everyone turned to look at her and Steve approached her, immediately, placing a hand on her shoulder gently. "Everything okay?"

Natasha looked at him, her eyes dancing with uncertainty, before she nodded. Without question, one of the men nearby, sitting in a creaky wooden chair and playing chess with a friend, stood and carried the chair to them. Setting it just off of the market path, he offered it to her. He was dressed in gleaming armor, and his black hair was pulled into a small, spiky ponytail, his thin eyes taking in the scene, cautiously.

"Thank you, Hogun," murmured Sif. "Everyone, this is one of the Warriors Three—Hogun. He is one o mine and Thor's dear friends and he comes into the town every week to play chess with some of the town elders, and interact with the children."

Hogun nodded yet again, but did not speak. Sif smirked.

"He's...a man of few words," she murmured as Steve helped Natasha into the chair.

With a low whisper, he asked, "Clint told me about the voices. Is it her?"

"Clint can kiss my ass," Natasha replied. "What gives him the right too-"

"He just wanted me to know so I can keep the _best_ eye on you possible," Steve urged. "He _cares_ about you, Natasha. And so do I."

"Yeah, well, if what Loki told me is true," Natasha replied, her eyes glancing toward the palace, where the piece of paper that would decide her past—and possibly her future—sat in a drawer in her guest bedroom, "then the last time a man _cared_ about me, I ended up nearly dead, abducted and brainwashed. I was turned into a stone-cold killer, a manipulator and a frigid, cold-hearted _bitch_. _Forgive_ me if I don't put much merit in _care_."

"Fair enough," murmured Steve. "But you still shouldn't be angry at him. He just wants to protect you."

He turned to rejoin Sif and the group, then paused, turning his head to look at her. "And for the record, it's probably not wise to believe everything a man like Loki tells you."

* * *

It took three hours to tour the entirety of the township, and along the way, the group of Midgardians were able to meet the rest of the Warriors Three—the womanizing Fandral, who couldn't help but flirt with the women in the group (and felt the powerful left hook of Sif _and_ Natasha)—and Volstagg, who was happily gorging himself on the hock of a succulent ham, grinning from ear to ear at the voluptuous bar maid who'd prepared it for him.

The Warriors Three joined the group after this, moving back toward the palace with them as night fell, heavily, over the landscape.

As the rest of the group chatted and laughed, walking back past the enchanted door from before, Natasha paused. When she was sure the rest of them had rounded the corner, unaware of her departure, she approached the door, tucked deeply into the shadows of the palace. Reaching out a hand, she touched the strange grooves carved into the door—etchings of runes and symbols that she didn't understand—and jumped when they lit up. Like with the servant from before, the dark wood gleamed with power and the locks clicked and popped open.

Furrowing her brow, Natasha watched as the door slid open just a crack. Silently, she slipped in, closing it behind her and turned. Inside, it was dark, and as her eyes adjusted, she could make as the spiraling contour of stone steps moving downward. Taking a deep breath, she began to move, with caution, down the stairs, following their twisting movement all the way to the bottom. Before she stepped around the corner, however, she noted the gleam of bright white.

Something down here was lit up, and she had to wonder what. Steadying her slightly shaken frame, she moved down the last few steps and paused, her eyes widening. Laid out before her was a cell—a cell lit up in a stark white, and made of glass, the color contrasting against the blackness of the room. She could make out a small, wooden chair just outside the prison, set up for visitors, if the prisoner ever got any. Inside the cell was a table—small and rickety—where the tray of half-eaten food from the servant sat—sat opposite of what caused Natasha's jaw to drop to the floor: the prisoner.

Sitting against the bright white wall of the cell was Loki, his head tilted down a little. He was clearly asleep.

Natasha frowned as Sif's angry, narrowed eyes came to mind, and she approached the cell, quietly. Pausing just in front of it, she watched Loki's expression change in sleep. He looked so much more innocent, and she could tell by the way his brow furrowed, his lip upturned and he fidgeted, that despite that fact, his dreams were far from it.

_He's afraid,_ Anastasia whispered.

_I know. I can see him, _Natasha replied.

_Perhaps, _the voice answered. _But can you really _see_ him?_

Natasha was silent as she reached out, placing her hand on the glass, her heart crying out to him. She knew exactly what he had done—to her world, her home, her _team—_but she also knew what he had done _for _them. And Anastasia knew what he had done for _her_. And so, her heart screamed.

"_Malenkaya_," he suddenly whimpered in his sleep, tossing his body over into another position, forcefully. "Please..."

_He's dreaming of that night. Do you remember it, Natalia Romanova? The night our family died_.

Natasha closed her eyes. She called up images, sentimental and unfamiliar. Three girls and a small boy child. Guns. Bullets. _Death_.

And Lukas—Lukas, who tried to stop it all.

She remembered the whiz of a bullet, swift—and then nothing.

_Yes,_ Anastasia murmured. _Nothing. And he though we were dead. He watched us die._

"_Malenkaya_."

_Listen? He dreams of it. Every night. Can you hear him call out to us? To _you_. _

Natasha opened her eyes, tears streaming down her face. "_Lukas_."

The name caused Loki's eyes to shoot open. Green met blue, and there was a long, tense silence between them, before Loki's voice moved out of his mouth in a shocked, breathy whisper:

"_Malenkaya_?"

* * *

"Let brotherly love continue. Do not forget to entertain strangers for by doing so some have unwittingly entertained angels." Hebrews 13:1-2.

_Please_ review.


	14. Chapter 13

When I first started this chapter, iwouldvebeendrake01 (ON TUMBLR GO FOLLOW HER :D) was my new friend. But it has been months since I've worked on it, and I just want to thank God for blessing me with her. She has become one of the best friends I've ever had, and I'd like to dedicate this chapter to her! I love you, little turtle! (She is also responsible for making the story's new book cover! Thanks, sweetie!)

Now, _Malenkaya_.

Disclaimer: I own nothing

* * *

Chapter 13

* * *

"_Malenkaya_?"

Green eyes widened, and the dark, weary circles under them caused them to look even bigger as the man stood, his form much slighter than Natasha remembered. She assumed it was from eating much less than she was sure was his usual diet. That and the stress of imprisonment.

Pressing his hands to the glass, his eyes gazed, uncertainly, into hers and his head tilted. "Is it you? I've dreamed of you so many times since being placed in this cell. I'm apt to believe you're just another illusion caused by my fragile state of mind."

He smirked a little, though it held little of it's usual bite. She could see it—the Trickster was withering away, leaving a shell of the man he once was.

Natasha was reluctant to assume if that was good or bad.

"You have yet to vanish," she heard him murmur, as he turned his eyes from her. :"So I can only assume you're real."

"Hello, Loki," Natasha murmured in reply.

Green eyes trailed to her, and a sour smirk rose on his lips. "Hello, _malenkaya._"

"Please don't call me that."

"I would call you nothing else, Anastasia."

Natasha slammed her hands, angrily, against the glass of his prison. "_Shut up_. How many times do I have to tell you-"

"Your lips are course with denial but your eyes speak different words," Loki interrupted. "You've been seeing the visions—memories of our friendship. You believe yet you deny your belief. You know, yet you ignore that part of your heart. Why?"

"Why _should_ I believe?" she hissed, glaring at him. "I was sent through the ringer as a child, conditioned and honed to be a _killing machine_. _Forgive_ me if I have a hard time believing that's how _grand duchesses _are treated."

Loki's eyes grew soft and sad, suddenly, as he watched her. "No, _malenkaya_, forgive me. I was not able to protect you. If I had but known you lived...I would not have let anyone use you in such a way. I broke my promise."

Orbs of glistening blue narrowed, and Natasha was unsure if she should take him at his word. She had seen this side of him only once before—inside Stark Tower, seven months prior. He had not seemed like the same insane meglomaniac back then either. And now, this remorseful attitude...

Had he sat here for seven months in repugnance of himself?

_That's what he deserves, _Natasha's mind hissed.

_You're right, _little Anastasia replied. _He acted very badly. But you were given a second chance, weren't you? Tell me...do you remember Lukas' promise?_

_He promised that he would..._

"Always find me...and protect me..."

Loki glanced at her. "Yes. That promise. I failed to protect you. I didn't find you in time." He smiled, bitterly. "You _do_ remember."

Natasha's eyes widened, and she took a step back from his cage.

Loki's brow crinkled in confusion. "_Malenkaya?_"

"I...I..." Natasha stuttered, and then turned. "I _don't _remember and I want _nothing_ to do with you! Stay out of my head!"

Glancing over her shoulders, she glared at him, her expression hard as stone and sharp as knives. Then, with rigid determination, she rushed away from his cage and up the stairs to the shaded door she'd entered through.

Leaving Loki to gaze after her, his face tinged with the slightness of longing, and the hardness of a man whose whole life had turned on its head for the worst.

* * *

Natasha emerged from below just moments later, looking flustered and desperately bewildered. Tears had begun to form in uncertain blue orbs as she glanced back and forth up the path. Her charge was gone—disappeared up the path with Lady Sif and Darcy—but as she turned her head toward the area of path that led back up to the palace, her eyes fell on the glittering figure of the regal Asgardian queen.

Frigga.

"Your majesty, I can explain. I was-"

"No need," Frigga murmured, lifting her hand. "Thor figured this would happen."

"...what?"

Frigga approached Natasha, placing gentle hands on the woman's shoulders. "Before, I asked you who you were and you told me, quite plainly, that you were Natasha Romanoff. But we are alone now, my dear. So I ask...who are you, child?"

Natasha opened her mouth to give her the same answer when she realized that the taste of her own name was bitter on her tongue. She closed her eyes, letting a few of the confused, angry tears fall down her face. "I don't know. _I don't know_."

"Shh, shh, calm yourself, child," Frigga murmured, pulling the woman into a careful embrace.

Natasha was uncomfortable from the get-go, unused to being held. She had never had a mother and father to her recollection—though the little Anastasia in her head begged to differ—and Ivan's strong suit had never been love.

Despite that, she settled, weakly, into the hug, something within her grateful for someone else's warmth in such a confusing time of need. "Why are you acting this way toward me? You don't even know me."

"That's where you're wrong," Frigga murmured. "I spent many nights in my son's room in the midst of tearful stories about you."

Natasha ripped herself from the woman's arms, immediately. "I am _not_ Anastasia."

"I thought you did not know who you were, my dear," Frigga said, candidly.

"Yeah, well, I _know_ I'm not anyone who was _ever_ friends with a monster like Loki," growled the Widow, eyes narrowed fiercely.

Frigga's eyes darkened, and a crackle of power rose up around her—a natural kind of aura full of energy. "Please have care how you speak of _my son_."

Natasha took a step back, suddenly frightened. "You can't honestly believe that he's-"

"_I know what he is,_" Frigga hissed. "But he is, first and foremost, _my son_. And he _loves you_."

"Don't say that."

"He always has."

"Stop."

"And you are the _only one_ who can save him now."

"_Stop_."

Frigga closed her eyes, sadly, shaking her head. "Did you see him?"

Natasha seethed, the muscles in her jaw twitching from clenching it so tightly. "Leave me alone. Just...just, _leave me alone._"

With that, she rushed past her, up the path, toward the palace, leaving Frigga to gaze after her, her expression soft yet somber.

* * *

That night in her guest room, Natasha brushed out her red curls and stared at herself in the mirror. Her face had never looked so unfamiliar before—she continued to see flashes in it's surface of herself, but dressed as she'd never seen before, dripping in jewels, trimmed with laces and silks and skirts and bodices so elaborate, she could have never believed it was who she was—who she _really_ was.

Placing her hairbrush down and stepping into a nightgown laid out for her by the servants, she frowned as she stared at herself, fully, in another mirror at the other end of the room.

_You look good in green,_ little Anastasia's voice murmured. _Isn't it Lukas' favorite color?_

Natasha scoffed and turned toward the bed, pausing when she noted the cream-colored manilla folder she'd placed atop the impeccably made bed, the color contrasting against the dark maroon of the bedspread. She reached out, fingers trembling, and picked up the folder. Swallowing down the fear in herself, she began to open it, only to freeze and then drop the object back to the bed, her arms coming around herself. _  
_

_What would Loki being right prove? It doesn't make me feel any differently toward him..._

_You already do_, Anastasia replied, meekly. _You always have._

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" Natasha hissed, massaging her aching forehead. "Why do you persist on bothering me? Where did you even come from?"

_I'm _you_, idiot,_ Anastasia responded, _and as much as you hate to admit it, from the first moment you walked into that room with that big glass cage and looked upon Lukas, you knew something was different for you—different toward him than it was for any of your other teammates._

"That's not true. He was—_is—_just another criminal who thinks he's above the law and above the morality of human life!" Natasha argued. "I don't know him as anything more or anything less and I don't _want_ to."

_He is more. He did it for you._

"STOP!" Natasha cried, finally, cupping her face in her hands. She could barely handle the guilt of her own grimy past. How could some imaginary child in her head expect her to carry the guilt of Loki's as well? "Shut up. I didn't _want_ any of that. I was—am—so sick of pain and sorrow and _death_."

There was a moment of silence and then, finally, a reply. But this voice was different—it was a young boy's voice. Lukas' voice—_Loki's _voice:

_I know_, it said, sadly. _So was I._

Natasha wept.

* * *

The palace inhabitants, and townspeople, slept in a relative peace that night, unaware of the silent commotion stirring just outside the palace walls. Tucked, deeply, beneath the fog that rolled into Asgard that night, the gleam of round black eyes, and pale, masked faces shone, moving, in hasty silence, through paths covered by the dense, smoky moisture.

The quiet figures moved up the shrouded lanes toward the palace, they paused at the perimeter, finding themselves forced to a halt by a barrier thrown up around the building—protecting not only an the architecturally beautiful centerfold of Asgard, but it's most fortified stronghold. Raising a pale, armored hand, one of the many figures placed it's fingers against the protection spell and watched as it ate away at the magic, allowing them a narrow entrance onto the palace grounds—a small crack in the palace's defenses.

One by one, and covered by the intense fog, the figures moved up the paths toward the castle, amassed together and armed for destruction. And one by one, as they slipped up the main path toward the palace entrance, did they pass a shadowed, hidden door.

* * *

Emerald green eyes slid open from the semblances of half-sleep. The shamed Asgardian prince sat up, slowly, from his uncomfortable slumber and then stood, long limbs pushing him into an upright position. He could feel the intensity of foreign magic as it passed by the room where his prison was kept, and his brow furrowed.

Not only foreign, but powerful. Dangerous. Malicious.

Loki remembered it—it was familiar. It was Malekith's magic—and the magic of his people. Loki had felt it only once as it was only once that Odin had ever allowed him on one of his little excursions with Thor. So, it was true. The elf had broken the unsteady truce that Thor had bragged so vibrantly about all of those years ago.

Upon first realizing what was occurring, Loki scoffed. _Let them rot, for all I care_, he thought.

But then, he remembered: his mother was in that palace.

And not only Frigga but...

He remembered her blue eyes and red-hair. Not only from seeing her today, but from countless years, _decades_ of dreaming of her. From the Battle of New York, when he had stood so close to her and felt the raised scar tissue on her temple—from the bullet where he believed he had lost her forever.

Anastasia. Natasha. _Malenkaya_.

Swallowing down his urgency and fear, he concentrated, moving, firmly, to the glass of his prison room and pressing his hands to it. Allowing the magic to rise up inside him, he willed it to race, rapidly, through his body and into the glass, the sound ringing out. He opened his eyes.

_Not a scratch_.

Growling, he furrowed his pale brow, allowing his eyebrows to arrow deeply, as he concentrated. He thought of his mother and all she had taught him in the ways of magic—how she had loved him when no one else would. He thought of Natasha, of _Anastasia_, and the tragedy faced the last time someone had invaded a place where she had dared to rest her head.

With the force of all his anger, all his sadness, all his _desperate need_, to save these people, these loved ones, despite all they believed him to be, he allowed the magic, in all of its ferocious power, to rush up through his body again, and slam, like Thor's thunder, like a tidal wave of energy, into the glass.

The glass _cracked_.

* * *

_The sound of ringing violins rang out in a ballroom painted in tones of reds and golds. Pillars of solid gold sat atop scallopped tiles that alternated red and gold. Large, long windows lined each of the walls, and the gleam of moonlight spilled in from outside, falling on the dimly lit ballroom and the solitary figure standing in the middle of it._

_Natasha frowned as she looked around, her eyes falling to the front of the room where two large thrones, and five smaller ones resided. Her eyes grew sad and she tried to turn, noting the heaviness of the material draped on her body. _

_Looking down at her form, she realized she was dressed in a gown of golds and reds, the skirt bell-shaped and deep red, hitting the floor and hiding her feet, the bodice a swirling, beautiful mess of golds and reds all embroidered on top of each other, strapless, and cut into a sweetheart neckline that rested over her voluptuous bosom. _

_Frowning, she lifted the layers upon layers of skirt and paced from one end of the ballroom to the other, searching, wondering, uncertain. She tried to find the epicenter of the beautiful orchestral music, tried to find _one_ other living soul in the whole of the room._

_But there was no one._

_There were flashes—pictures—of men and women. Of children. She thought she spied, for a moment, the ethereal images of a royal family seated, regally, on the thrones, before the ghostly figures were gone and, again, she was alone._

_Stopping in the middle of the room, and slid to her knees, the skirts of the ornate gown flaring out around her, like the princess out of a fairy-tale. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes slammed closed, as she tried to sort out the wave of thoughts and feelings—the memories. The weight of being alone—_all_ alone._

But you're not, _malenkaya. _You're never alone.

"_So, this is where you are." _

_The two voices were so different and yet the same, and Natasha opened her eyes and looked up at the voice(s) owner.  
_

_Loki._

_He stood over her, dressed in plain black trousers, a dingy white shirt and a green, wool vest. He raised his hands, gesturing to the clothes with a sardonic smirk before he tucked his arms behind his back and circled her. His eyes wandered the room. "Your memory of this place is a little overstated."_

"_What?"_

"_It was different," Loki replied. "This room. It was subtler—the colors were softer. You're memory is overcompensating for the things it does not fully remember." He shook his head, allowing it to bow to his chest. His voice was suddenly soft, reminiscent. "Of course, I was only in this room once or twice. When you were brave enough to step foot in here on those nights when we played. Usually, we were in the labyrinth."_

_Natasha pushed herself into a standing position. "I'm not her. I can't be. I...just...why me?" She breathed, pressing a hand to her forehead, as it throbbed and ached from the memories that_ begged_ to resurface._

_Loki laughed, sharply, bitterly-almost sadly. "The question of 'why'—why what, _malenkaya? _Why did I choose you? Why did what happened to your family happen? Why did you have to be Anastasia?"_

"_All of the above!" snapped Natasha._

_Loki glanced at her through wavy black tendrils, smiling an odd sort of smile—an expression that flitted somewhere between bemused, sad and sincerely genuine. "I will tell you, someday. In great detail," he began, before bowing his smirking head again as he circled her, "when we have more time." _

_Natasha's brow furrowed. "I don't understand." _

"_The palace is under attack."_

_Natasha looked around, turning, heavily, in her dress, as her eyes scanned from window to window for movement-for life. "I don't see anyone."_

"_That is because," Loki began, "this is not Asgard."_

_Natasha's brow furrowed, deeply, as the room around her faded to black, leaving her and Loki standing in an expanse of nothingness. He had stopped his stride and was now standing directly in front of her. Realization flooded her. This was a dream. She was asleep. But then how was Loki-_

"_Malekith's elves will be upon us any moment, _malenkaya_," Loki murmured. "So, now would be a marvelous time for you to wake up."_

_Natasha opened her mouth to speak, when she heard his voice shout: _"**Wake up**!"

Natasha sat straight up, gasping, "_Us_?!" aloud as she had been prepared to do in her dream, her blue eyes meeting bright green ones. They widened as Loki grinned from his place at the end of her bed.

"Hello," he said, amusement dancing in his eyes, "_malenkaya_."

* * *

"My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience." James 1:2-3

**I'm not completely pleased with this chapter, having had a much better dream sequence and invasion scene written but then losing my progress when my Open Office freaked out. Still, I think I was able to preserve the general jist of both scenes—though I know the conversation was more in depth and emotional between Loki and Natasha in the last one. So, I'm sorry if it feels like it's lacking because it probably is! Hope you still enjoyed it!**

_Please_ review!


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